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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2023 with funding from 
University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 


https://archive.org/details/travelsinitalyfoOOgaut 


7 George D. Sproul. 


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Travels in Italy 


Fortunio 
One of Cleopatra’s Nights 
King Candaules 


By 


THEOPHILE GAUTIER 


Translated and Edited by 


PROFESSOR F.C. Dz SUMICHRAST 
DEPARTMENT OF FRENCH, HARVARD UNIVERSITY 


Votume IV. 


Che C. T. Brainard 
Publishing Co. 
Boston Rew Pork 


HOLELON FOE wisn ge 


‘THIS EDITION OF THE WORKS OF 
‘THEOPHILE GAUTIER, PRINTED FOR 
SUBSCRIBERS ONLY, IS LIMITED TO 
ONE THOUSAND NUMBERED SETS, OF 


WHICH THIS IS 


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Copyright, rgor 


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The 


List of Illustrations 


*<’The Grand Canal at Venice is the most wonderful 
BuIne ring Ue WOLlGMeMe nub Os ed iy 5) Ar Ontipiece 


‘<The Loggia dei Lanzi, the gem of the 
Piseraeceiavoignoria wns. 1. Pave ait, Part I 


bie Uuercayspassed like a-lovely dreamy. i bar7 850) <Sne LL 


<< Cleopatra, leaning on the arm of Char- 
mian, passed rapidly like a dazzling 
vision between the double lines of 
BlavesmpcannpatOnchcsuaie sya sibel aod. fcru LL 


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F Spain, as stated in the Jntroduction to “‘ Travels 
in Spain,” always attracted the French mind, 
so did Italy. It did more — it attracted the 
Frenchman himself and induced him to travel. 

For one who visited the Iberian peninsula, a thousand 
crossed the Alps. Madrid, Granada, Seville were 
rivalled and surpassed by Naples, Rome, Florence, 
Venice, and Milan. ‘There had always been inter- 
communication between the two countries; civilisation 
came to Gaul in the train of Czsar’s legions ; the Ren- 
aissance flourished in the shadow of the Apennines 
before it swept over the valleys of the Seine and the 
Loire. Petrarch became a living force in French litera- 
ture, and Leonardo da Vinci died the guest of Francis I 
at Amboise. In the days of the Valois it was an Italian 
woman who dominated blood-stained France, and in the 


last stand of the nobility against centralising monarchy 


3 


kkebkeeeeeeetettettttttetettse 
Te RANVIE EeShlany STA 


it was an Italian cardinal against whom fought. the 
Condés and the Longuevilles. Of the many triumphs 
which the Sun-King enjoyed to the full, few were 
sweeter to him than the sight of the Doge of Venice 
bowing at the foot of the great throne in the splendid 
gallery at Versailles. 

The Romanticists could not escape the fascination 
of Italy, and in certain respects they did not attempt to 
do so. Rome itself — which had so happily inspired 
Joachim du Bellay — did not attract them, for the City 
on the Seven Hills was too classical for them, and 
classicism was their béte noire; but Venice, with its 
unique situation, its wealth of legend, tradition, and 
history, with its Bridge of Sighs, its Leads, its Grand 
Canal, its Rialto, seemed to them to fulfil every condi- 
tion required of a city worthy of the admiration and the 
fanatical worship of the poet and the painter. It is in- 
teresting to note that neither Naples nor Florence had 
the same charm for them; that they were scarcely 
affected by Pisa, Bologna, and Milan, while Ferrara and 
Padua did appeal to them in greater measure and with 
more certainty. [he real gem of Italy for them, the 
typical city, was unquestionably Venice. “Two of their 


gods had set the seal of their approval upon it: Shake- 


4 


che ob abe abe abe ay abe che abe abe che cbeche che cde bead cbr ee abe checks 


me ore ote orn ere ore Wh 4) 


PNR Oo UC ER DON 


speare had made it the scene of one of his masterpieces, 
and Byron had lived, loved, and sung there. 

Thus Gautier, who, even in 1850, was still very 
much of a Romanticist, felt himself strongly drawn to 
the land of the orange and the myrtle. ‘The painter 
and the poet in him longed to behold the Venice of his 
dreams, the Venice which had inspired Musset — 
whose verse no man forgets, once he has read it. He 
could have dispensed with all else if only he saw the 
City on the Lagoons, and when he did finally cross the 
Alps it was with feverish impatience that he hurried on. 
Neither Como nor Garda, neither Milan nor Verona 
could hold him —on the distant horizon, above the 
blue line of the Adriatic, shone the splendour, the mi- 
rage, the place of his dreams, the Jerusalem of his artis- 
tic soul. And once he reached it he could not tear 
himself away; he lingered in it; he was never weary 
of wandering in and out of its streets, of being swept 
along its canals, of passing from palace to church, from 
church to square, from square to island. He was fully, 
deeply satisfied. He enjoyed the exquisite bliss of the 
complete realisation of a rich and varied fancy, so sur- 
passingly fair that he had dreaded seeing it vanish, 
that he had trembled at the possibility of its proving 


5 


Lhbebebttettttetttttthtte 
DLRAMIE EST UN oT Aiea 


untrue. But it did not. Venice was all and more 
than he had looked for; he basked in his satisfaction; 
he revelled in his joy ; he exulted in his pleasure with 
the same complete, profound sense of triumph as Kings- 
ley when he, also, realised a long caressed dream and 
“At last!” found himself in the West Indies. 

This fact told on Gautier’s book, or on his articles, 
rather; for the ‘Travels in Italy ” are letters of travel 
collected and republished in book form, like all his 
other works of this class. He was on the staff of 
la Presse when he started on his trip, and it was to that 
paper that he sent his “copy,” the first instalment of 
which appeared on September 24, 1850. Very quickly 
he took his readers to Venice —his letter of October 3 
being devoted to that city. At this time he carried his 
story no farther than the description of the Grand 
Canal, and there occurred a break of nearly a year in 
the publication of the letters. “Chey were resumed on 
September 12, 1851, in the same journal, but under a 
somewhat modified title. The first one was: “Far 
from Paris — Notes of Travel;”’ the second one, “ Far 


>? 


from Paris — Life in Venice;” the original one reap- 
pearing only in January, 1853, when the chapter on 


Florence was published in /e Pays. ‘That chapter ends 
6 


abe robe ofa che obo che hs cbr cbecde ecko cde cbocde eee cde che chee 


ere we are Te re ere eve ore 


ENE ROD YT FON 


abruptly, before Gautier has fairly entered upon the 
study of the city, its monuments, and its art treasures. 
As for Rome and Naples, there is not a word about 
them. Venice swamped the rest of Italy, not only 
because, as he tells us, he had spent a much longer 
time there than he had planned to do, but because when 
he began to write of this city of his dreams he could not 
stay his pen; the theme was congenial and the words 
came of themselves; one scene called up another, one 
picture reminded him of another masterpiece not yet 
seen — and on, on he went, forgetful of all else in that 
fair land save of the fact that he was in Venice, that 
Venice was lovely, that he adored it, and that he must 
make every one of his readers adore it too. 

It should be added that Gautier, who quite recog- 
nised the fact that he had not done justice to Florence, 
and had not written a line about Rome, intended to 
continue his book until he had treated these two cities 
and Naples in the same way as Venice; but, alas! the 
project was never carried out, no more than many 
another which he caressed for a time, and when in 
1875 the “Travels in Italy” appeared in book form 
with the sub-title “Italia,” that was the end of the 
attempt to complete the story of the trip. 


7 


LALALALLALEALALAL LALA LL LSA 
TRAW Es TUN I TVanom, 


Of course it would have been interesting to pussess 
all Gautier had to say about the Eternal City and 
the City of Flowers, but it may be affirmed that it 
would not have been as characteristic, as deeply marked 
with intense feeling, with warm, passionate love of the 
subject. To him Italy meant Venice, and Venice Italy. 
The other places were no doubt interesting and attrac- 
tive, and the painter-half of him could delight in the 
Tribuna and the Loggie, but the whole of him was 
wrapped up in San Marco and the Campanile, in San 
Giorgio Maggiore and the Dogana, in the Lido and 
the Grand Canal. He had given his readers the very 
cream of Italy at the outset; neither he nor they could 
care for aught else after that. 

Yet more. He had been essentially Romanticist ; 
he had carried out the ideas of the school and laid stress 
on the very points which constituted, for Hugo and his 
followers, the chief value of the new art, now, alas! no 
ionger new and already being replaced by a truer and 
more satisfactory form. Picturesqueness, colour, exoti- 
cism, quaintness, eccentricity, grotesqueness, splendour, 
abundance of poetical epithets, wealth of imagination, 
gorgeousness of description, stateliness and variety of 


scene — these were called for by all Romanticists, and 


8 


bhbbbeebeebedetbteteet tte 
FNIR RO DUCTION 


these he gave in abundance. There might be —there 
was another Venice besides the exquisite city he saw, 
with its “pirate basilica,” its gallery of palaces, its won- 
drous prospects, its squalid quarters —there was the 
Venice of history, the one Montesquieu and Saint Réal 
knew, the oligarchical republic so long the Mistress 
of the Seas; there was the Venice groaning under the 
yoke of the Austrian, that mourned while its masters 
feasted. Of this one he has given us a glimpse, but no 
more. Then the Venice of the Venetians themselves, 
with its own mode of life, its own peculiarities of 
thought, its own characteristic manners, —the actual 
living Venice; but that he speaks not of and thinks 
not of. 

The reason for this is not far to seek. The whole 
Romanticist school laid the greatest stress on externals, 
and cared little or nothing for deep and minute analysis 
of feeling or passion. It was impulsive, not logical ; 
emotional, not rational; passionate, but superficial. 
It was carried away by its feelings, by its nerves; it 
could not dwell long on any ‘one subject; assiduous, 
persevering, laborious, minute study was repugnant to 
its character. It loved to flit from one picturesque 


subject to another. It craved for whatever was novel ; 


9 


Seebcb chek bk ch cb cbdcbdecbab ecb ecb heck 
TRAVELS IN ITALY 


it revelled in the sensational. It was opposed to the 
psychology of the writers of the seventeenth century 
who saw in Man the one and only subject worthy of 
engrossing their attention ; it was hostile to the scep- 
ticism of the eighteenth century, that scorned tradition 
and turned legend into ridicule. The Romanticist 
school had little thought for man; the environment, 
the background, the stage-setting were more im- 
portant in its eyes. Accuracy in matters historical 
it flouted too readily; the important thing was that 
history should be attractive, brilliant, richly coloured, 
striking. 

And it is much in this way that Gautier understood 
Venice. It is the splendid scene, the long line of pal- 
aces, the flowing waters of the canals, the lofty cam- 
paniles bathed in rosy light, the glistering mosaics, the 
picturesque attitudes of the gondoliers that he repro- 
duces with unrivalled skill. It is a magnificent back- 
ground, a superb scene made ready for some great 
human drama, and in this respect his description is un- 
equalled and wholly satisfactory. He has done exactly 
what he started out to do. His programme is fulfilled 
to the letter, and his book is the work of an artist and 


a poet that sees marvellously well, and makes his reader 


| Ke) 


gebbhbhbSbteehttth dete tee 
INTRODUCTION 


see with him. Victor Hugo himself could not make 
the scenes more lifelike. The book is full of poetic 
feeling, of ardent love of beauty, of the deep sentiment 
of art. Bara weak point here and there, there are few 
finer bits than the account of the arrival in Venice, —a 
“© Rain, Steam and Speed” that recalls Turner; few 
more heartfelt and exquisite farewells than his adieu to 
Venice, which even Byron’s ‘Adieu to thee, fair 
Rhine!” or Walter Scott’s “¢ Harp of the North, fare- 
well! ”? do not surpass. There can, indeed, be no fare- 
well to the Venice Gautier saw and which he makes 
his readers see. It is the poetic image, the idealised 


vision which for ever remains in the memory. 


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be Lea: foe Pavers 


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BEELLALELELALLALALALALL LLL 


TRAVELS IN ITALY 


chet cde ohooh he heh ch abe che teccbechcbe cheb chabeck hoe 


We e7e eye ate wre eFe wre eee oro ome 


Lili Lcd 


Pee Ono MIA G GOR ie 


S soon as we had crossed the crest which 
separates Switzerland from Italy, I was 
struck by the extreme difference in the 
temperature. On the Swiss slope the 

weather had been delightful, — soft, balmy, and bright, 
— but on the Italian there blew an icy wind, and great, 
mist-like clouds swept constantly over us. The cold 
was the more bitter by contrast with the previous 
warmth. The rain accompanied us on our way until 
we reached Lago Maggiore. At early dawn the sky be- 
gan to clear, though vast banks of black and dark-gray 
clouds from which still fell occasional showers, rose 
behind the mountains on the other side of the lake. 

The road follows the shore past endless gardens and 
villas with white peristyles, roofs of curved tiles, and 
terraces covered with luxuriant vines upborne by gran- 


ite supports. On the terraces, which frequently rise 


15 


bebbebbbbtbtettttbttttted 
REV EAE IN ees 


one above another, and which are turned into carefully 
cultivated gardens, bloom all manner of flowers and 
shrubs. I noticed repeatedly and not without astonish- 
ment, for it was the first time that I had come across 
them, great clumps of gigantic blue hortensia. 

The three Borromean Islands, Isola Madre, Isola 
Bella, and Isola dei Pescatori, are situated in the north- © 
ern part of the lake, which forms a sort of an elbow, 
one end of which is turned towards Domo d’ Ossola. 
Originally these islands were barren rocks. Prince 
Vitaliano Borromeo had loam brought there and built 
gardens of European reputation. I purposely use the 
word ‘“built,”’ for masonry plays a great part in them, 
as it does indeed in nearly all Italian gardens, which 
are architectural works rather than gardens. Isola 
Madre consists, like Isola Bella, of a series of terraces 
rising one above another, and surmounted by a palace. 
Isola Bella, which is very plainly seen from the road, 
has a wealth of turrets, of slender spires, of statues, 
fountains, porticos, colonnades, vases, and of the rich- 
est architectural decoration. "There are even trees, — 
cypresses, orange trees, myrtles, lime trees, Canada 
pines; but plainly vegetation is a mere accessory. 


The very natural idea of putting verdure, flowers, and 


16 


chs abate obs oe abe abe oe oboe abe cdot obec boob ce feeb cde oe lobe 
LAGO MAGGIORE 


sward into a garden was an after-thought, like all nat- 
ural ideas. Some distance farther the arcaded houses 
of Isola dei Pescatori show their bases laved by the 
waters of the lake; their rustic aspect contrasting pleas- 
antly with the somewhat pretentious pomp of Isola 
Madre and Isola Bella. 

The islands, seen from the shore, do not justify the 
enthusiastic descriptions which have been written of 
them. The seven terraces of Isola Bella, ending in 
unicorns and Pegasi, have a theatrical aspect which 
scarcely fits in with the Borromean motto, *¢ Hlumilitas,” 
inscribed everywhere. Isola Madre, with its square 
terraces supporting a square mansion, is symmetrical 
and dull, and one cannot but wonder that these two 
islands should have been celebrated so enthusiastically. 
Both the lake and the road are very fullof life. On 
the lake are fishing-boats, ferry-boats and pyroscaphs 
which ply between Sesto Calende and Bellinzona; on 
the road ox-carts, carriages, and foot-passengers carry- 
ing the inevitable umbrella. The peasant women, 
sometimes pretty, are afflicted with goitre like the 
Valaisian women. ) 

On approaching Arona, a colossal statue of Saint 


Carlo Borromeo which overlooks the lake, is seen on 


2 17 


TRAVELS IN ITALY 


a hill to the right. It is, next to the Colossus of 
Rhodes and the Colossus of Nero at the Maison Dorée, 
the loftiest statue ever made. ‘The saint, in an attitude 
full of nobility and simplicity, holds a book in one 
hand and with the other appears to bestow his bless- 
ing on the land he protects and which lies outstretched 
at his feet. 

Arona has a thoroughly Spanish look. The houses 
have projecting roofs and balconies, the lower windows 
are grated, and on the walls are painted panels and 
madonnas. At the inn we came upon an inner court 
adorned with pillars and galleries just as in Andalusia. 

The lake ends at Sesto Calende, where the Ticino 
issues from Lago Maggiore. Sesto Calende is on the 
farther bank and the stream is crossed by a ferry, for 
the Milan road passes through that little town. I 
rather liked Sesto Calende. It was market day, a piece 
of luck for a traveller, for market day brings from the 
country districts numbers of typical peasants whom 
otherwise it would be very difficult to come across. 
Most of the women wore a striking and very effective 
head-dress. ‘Their hair, plaited and rolled carefully at 
the back of the head, was held in place by thirty or 


forty silver pins arranged in the form of an aureole, 


18 


kkekeebebretetteeteteetetes 
LAGO MAGGIORE 


that showed above the head like the dentellations of a 
comb; a larger pin adorned at each end with enormous 
metal olives passed through the chignon; the whole 
recalling the head-dress of the Valencian women. 
These pins, called spontonz, are rather costly, and yet I 
have seen them worn by poor women and young girls 
with frayed skirts and bare and dusty feet. No doubt 
they sacrificed to this piece of luxury other objects of 
prime necessity, — but is not the prime necessity for 
women to be beautiful, and are not silver pins prefer- 
able to shoes ? 

The Austrian dominions begin at Sesto Calende ; 
the other shore of the lake is Piedmontese. It is at 
Sesto Calende that for the first time one comes upon 
the tight-fitting blue trousers and the white tunics of 
the Austrians. 

I must not leave Sesto Calende without sketching 
the portrait of a young woman upon the threshold of a 
shop, the dark interior of which formed a warm, strong 
background, against which she stood out like a head by 
Giorgione. Her beauty was of the purest Southern 
type. Her black eyes shone like coals under her 
amber brow; her complexion was of that uniform 


tone, that faccia smorta which is in no wise sickly, 


19 


ALELLAEALLHELLALAALLLALL AALS ALLS 
TRAY EICS AN: Dae 


and which merely indicates that passion concentrates 
all the blood in the heart; her thick, close, shining 
hair, curling in short waves, swelled on her temples 
as if the wind had blown it out, and her neck and 
shoulders formed a clean and splendid line. She let 
me look at her quietly, without self-consciousness or 
coquetry, guessing that I was either a painter or a 
poet, perhaps both, and kindly let me enjoy one 
aspect of her beauty. 

The Austrian postilions wear a picturesque costume, 
consisting of a green jacket with yellow and black 
aiguillettes, jack-boots, a hat with a copper band, and 
on the hip the horn which recurs so often in Schubert’s 
melodies. It is notable that in every country the pos- 
tilion who drives civilisation by post, since civilisation 
and travelling are synonymous, is one of those who 
longest remain faithful to local colour. He is the Past 
driving the Future and cracking his whip. 

From Sesto Calende to Milan the road is bordered 
with vineyards and groves of trees, which grow most 
luxuriantly and vigorously. 'The foliage bounds the 
view on all hands, and you travel between two lines 
of verdure kept fresh by running brooks. A splendid 


avenue of trees indicates the approach to the city, 


20 


che te abe ole be abe ahs cbr cl abr obo ceed ob ab ole ale ole ob abo ole oleae 


Cie ee ee CTO oe CTO ae OF Ue OHO CPS awe UTS 


EAGO UMA G GIO R'E 


which has a very majestic appearance from this side. 
The Triumphal Arch, under which could easily be 
placed the Carrousel Arch and which almost rivals 
in size the Arc de l Etoile, gives to the entrance a 
monumental character borne out by the other build- 
ings. On the summit of the arch an allegorical figure 
of Peace drives a bronze car drawn by six horses. At 
the four angles of the entablature are equerries mounted 
on prancing brazen steeds and holding wreaths. “Two 
colossal figures of river-gods leaning upon urns are 
placed against the huge panel on which is inscribed 
the votive inscription; and four pairs of Corinthian 
columns mark the divisions of the monument, separate 
the cornice, and form three distinct arcades. The 
central one is astonishingly high. 

Having passed through this archway, one enters the 
Nuevo Parco, which appeared to me almost as large as 
the Champ de Mars in Paris. On the left rises a 
vast amphitheatre intended for manoeuvres and open- 
air performances; at the back rises the old castle; and 
beyond, against the blue sky, stands out like silver 
filigree the white silhouette of the Duomo, which has 
in no wise the form of a dome. Duomo in Italy is a 


generic term and does not imply a cupola. 


21 


ALEDE HAA ESA AAA ete tts 
TRAV IES AEN YA 


As soon as one enters the streets, the height of the 
buildings, the coming and going of the people, the gen- 
eral cleanliness and comfort make the tourist feel that 
he is in a living capital, quite a rare thing in Italy, 
where there are so many dead cities. Numberless 
carriages travel rapidly along the flagged tracks, some- 
what like stone rails, set in the pebbly pavement. 
The houses look like mansions, the mansions like 
hotels, the hotels like palaces, the palaces like temples. 
Everything is grand, regular, majestic, if somewhat 
pompous. On all sides are seen columns, architraves, 
and balconies of granite. Milan is somewhat like 
both Madrid and Versailles, with a spruceness which 
Madrid lacks. The resemblance to Spain which I 
have already spoken of strikes one at every step, and I 
cannot help noting it again, for I am not aware that it 
has been remarked upon previously. “The windows are 
hung with great white and yellow striped blinds, the 
shops have curtains of the same colour, which recall 
the Spanish tendidos; the women of the middle class 
and those who are not in full dress, wear the mezzaro, 
a sort of black veil which imitates the mantilla very 
closely. ‘The illusion would be almost complete, were 


it not destroyed by the presence of the Austrians. 


x 4 


bbb bbb bb bbb bbb bbe 


LAGO MAGGIORE 


I had been told to go to the best hotel in Milan, the 
Hotel de la Ville, in the Corso Servi (now Corso Vit- 
torio Emanuele), which fully deserves its reputation. 
The facade is a very good piece of architecture, adorned 
with pilasters, brackets, and busts of celebrated Italians, 
orators, painters, poets, historians, and warriors. ‘The 
Staircase, worthy of a royal residence, is covered from 
top to bottom with remarkable stucco work and paint- 
ings of incredible richness and amazing workmanship. 
The ceiling is particularly remarkable. It represents 
various mythological subjects, with monochromes, bassi- 
relievi, pilasters, and flowers so brilliant and so admira- 
bly painted that Diaz would envy them. All the 
rooms are decorated with equal care and taste; the 
smallest hallways and corridors are splendid and inter- 
esting. As for the dining-room, the luxuriance of the 
ornamentation is overpowering. Eight colossal cary- 
atides, alternately male and female, watch the traveller 
at his meals and intimidate him with their fixed stony 
glance. These caryatides support a ceiling divided 
into compartments of unimaginable richness. Every- 
where festoons, carvings, pendentives, imitation gems 
and gilding more brilliant than reality can possibly be. 


This will suffice to give an idea of Milanese luxury. 


che beatae oe abe abe abe ofr abe ote to cte ce ale cleo obese abe 
RAIVIETES EN (DD Aa ee 


It is so much the habit of travellers to speak ill of 
hotels and hotel-keepers that I here do this superb 
establishment the justice it deserves. I shall have 
enough descriptions of an entirely different kind to 


contrast with this one. 


24 


HE Duomo naturally attracts every tourist in 
) Milan at once; it dominates the city, of 
which it is the centre, the attraction, and the 
wonder. You proceed forthwith, even on a night when 
there is no moon, to note at least its general outline. 
The Piazza del Duomo is somewhat irregular in 
form. Its houses with their massive pillars and their 
saffron-coloured awnings, composed of buildings erected 
irregularly and varying in height, set off the cathedral 
admirably. Buildings often lose more than they gain 
by being cleared of their surroundings. This has been 
proved in the case of several Gothic monuments which 
were not, as had been supposed, spoiled by the stalls 
and hovels which had gradually grown up beside 
them. Besides, the Duomo is entirely isolated. But 
I think that nothing is better for a palace, a church, 
or any other regular edifice than to be surrounded 
by incoherent structures which bring out its noble 


proportions. 


25 


che cto ob oe oe he a oho he cba ce cbocbe ecb che ace chee cb oe bo abe 


Te OTe ye Ore ete OTe wre OTe OTe 


TRAV ESS. SIN ete ais 


The first effect produced upon the sight-seer who 
looks at the Duomo from the Square, is its dazzling 
appearance. [he whiteness of the marble contrastiny 
with the blue of the heavens is most striking; the 
church is like a vast lace of silver laid upon a back- 
ground of lapis-lazuli. That is the first impression, 
and it is also the last; when I think of the Duomo at 
Milan, it appears to me thus. 

The Duomo is one of the few Gothic churches 
in Italy, but the Gothic is very different from ours. 
It does not exhibit the simple faith; it has not the 
dread, mysterious, and darksome depth, the emaciated 
forms, the upspringing from earth to heaven, the 
austere character which sets aside beauty as too sen- 
sual, and uses matter only in so far as it enables 
it to rise towards God. The Italian Gothic is 
elegant, graceful, and brilliant, such as might be 
devised for fairy palaces and used for the construc- 
tion of Alcazars and mosques just as well as for a 
Catholic temple. Its delicacy allied to its whiteness 
gives it the appearance of a glacier with its innu- 
merable aiguilles, or of a gigantic concretion of 
stalactites. It is difficult to believe that it is the handi- 


work of man. 


26 


The facade is exceedingly simple. It consists of an 
acute angle like the gable of an ordinary house, bor- 
dered by marble lacework. ‘The wall, which has no 
projecting portion or order of architecture, is pierced 
by five doors and eight windows, and divided by six 
groups of fluted columns, or rather, of ribs ending in 
hollowed points surmounted by statues, with the inter- 
stices filled by brackets and niches which support and 
shelter figures of angels, saints, and patriarchs. Behind 
these spring up, like the pillars of a basilica, a crowded 
forest of finials, pinnacles, and minarets, of aiguilles of 
white marble, andthe central spire, which looks as if it 
had been crystallised in the air as it springs into the sky 
to a dizzying height, carrying close to the heavens the 
Virgin who stands upon its utmost point, one foot 
upon the crescent. On the centre of the facade are 
inscribed the words, * Marie nascenta,’ which form 
the dedication of the cathedral. 

Begun by Gian Galeazzo Visconti, and continued 
by Lodovico il Moro, the modern basilica was com- 
pleted by Napoleon [. It is the largest church next to 
Saint Peter’s at Rome and the Cathedral at Seville. 
The interior is majestic and noble in its simplicity. 


Rows of columns in pairs divide it into five naves. 


2] 


teteeettttetetettttttttes 
RCA BAS aN TD eal 


These groups of columns, in spite of their real mass, 
appear light on account of the slender proportions of 
the shafts. Above their capitals rises a sort of open 
and richly sculptured gallery, in which are placed statues 
of saints; then the ribbing continues and meets at the 
summit of the vaulting, adorned with trefoils and 
Gothic interlacements painted with such wonderful 
perfection that the eye would be deceived if here and 
there the bare stone did not show through the broken 
plaster. 

In the centre of the transept cross an opening sur- 
rounded by a railing enables one to look into the chapel 
in the crypt where rests Saint Carlo Borromeo within a 
crystal bier covered with silver plates. Saint Carlo 
Borromeo is the most venerated saint in this part of 
the country ; his virtues and his behaviour at the time 
the plague raged in Milan made him popular and keep 
his memory green. 

At the entrance of the choir, on a bay adorned by a 
crucifix surrounded by adoring angels, hangs the fol- 
lowing inscription in a weoden frame: “ Attendite ad 
petram unde excisi estis.” 

On either side rise two magnificent pulpits of metal, 


supported by superb bronze figures and overlaid with 


28 


silver bassi-relievi, the workmanship of which is more 
valuable than the material even. The panels of the 
organ, placed not very far from the pulpit, were painted 
by Procacini, if I am not mistaken, and around the 
choir run the stations of the Cross, carved by Andrea 
Biff, and some other sculptures. The weeping angels 
who mark the stations have varied attitudes and are 
delightful, though somewhat effeminate. The general 
impression is of religious simplicity ; a soft light in- 
duces recollection; the great pillars spring to the vault- 
ing with a feeling of aspiring faith; no obtrusive detail 
destroys the majesty of the ensemble. The general 
plan of the building is grasped at a glance. The splen- 
did elegance of the exterior seems to be veiled in mys- 
tery and to become more humble. The exterior is 
perhaps pagan in its lightness and whiteness, but the 
interior is unquestionably Christian. 

The sacristy contains treasures which did not sur- 
prise me, for I had seen the wardrobe of Our Lady of 
Toledo, one single dress of which, covered with black 
and white pearls, is worth seven millions, but the sac- 
risty at Milan, none the less, contains incredible riches. 
I shall first mention, because art must always take 


precedence of gold and silver, a fine “ Flagellation of 


29 


Christ ” by Cristoforo Solari, called il Gobbo, a Milan- 
ese painter, and a painting by Daniele Crespi repre- 
senting a miracle of Saint Carlo Borromeo, a work of 
masterly power and great ferocity of inspiration; next, 
the silver busts of the bishops, of Saint Sebastian, and 
Saint Thekla, the patroness of the parish church, stud- 
ded with rubies and topazes; a golden cross starred 
with sapphires, garnets, smoky topazes, and rock crys- 
tals; a magnificent eleventh-century copy of the Gos- 
pels, presented by Bishop Ribertus, written in gold 
throughout and bearing upon its covers, which are 
chased in the Byzantine style, a Christ wearing a skirt 
and accompanied by the four symbolical figures, the 
lion, the ox, the eagle, and the angel; a pail for holy 
water made of ivory and provided with silver-gilt 
handles in the shape of chimeras ; a pyx by Benvenuto 
Cellini, which is a wonder of elegance and delicacy ; 
the feather mitre of Saint Carlo Borromeo ; and pic- 
tures in silk by Lodovico Pellegrini. 

In the corner of one of the naves, before ascending 
to the roof, I glanced at)a monument adorned with 
allegorical figures in bronze by Leone Leoni (Aretino) 
from the designs of Michael Angelo, in a superb, vio- 


lent style. The roof itself, bristling with finials and 


30 


supported with flying buttresses which form ‘corridors 
in perspective, is composed, like the rest of the build- 
ing, of great slabs of marble. It rises far above the 
highest buildings in the city. A bas-relief, admirably 
carved, is set within each flying buttress. Each turret 
bears twenty-five statues. I do not believe that any- 
where else are so many carved figures contained within 
a similar space; the statues of the Duomo, which 
number 6716, would people a town of fair size. I 
had read of the church in Morea, painted in the Byzan- 
tine style by the monks of Mount Athos, which con- 
tains no less than three thousand figures, large and 
small, but this is nothing by the side of the Duomo at 
Milan. Among the statues is one by Canova, a Saint 
Sebastian, and an Eve by Cristoforo Solari, charming 
in its sensual grace, which is somewhat surprising in 
such a place. 

From the roof one has a noble prospect of the Alps, 
the Apennines, and the plains of Lombardy. In the 
distance are seen the white and black courses of the 
church at Monza, where is preserved the famous iron 
crown which Napoleon placed on his own head when 
he was crowned King of Italy, saying at the same 


time: “God has given it to me. Woe to him who 


31 


bbb beh bebe bbebbeb bad 
DRAYV Bass tl ANY Lea 


Pe 


touches it The crown is of gold and precious 
stones like every other crown, and owes its name to a 
small iron band which encloses it, and which, it is 
claimed, is forged out of a nail of the true cross, so that 
it is at once a jewel anda relic. A special permit is 
needed to see it since it acquired additional value by 
being placed upon Napoleon’s august brow, but an 
accurate copy is exhibited. 

‘The ascent of the open-worked spire is in no wise 
perilous, although it is likely to alarm people subject 
to vertigo. ‘The light stairs wind in the turrets and 
lead to a balcony above which there is only the pyra- 
midion of the spire and the statue which crowns the 
building. 

I shall not try to describe in greater detail this gigan- 
tic basilica ; it would take a whole volume; I shall be 
satisfied, as a mere artist, with its general aspect and a 
surprising impression. On returning to the street and 
walking around the church, one notices on the lateral 
facades and on the apse the same multitude of statues 
and bassi-relievi. It is like a mad orgy of sculpture, an 
incredible heaping up of wonders. 

Around the cathedral thrive all sorts of small trades, 


— second-hand book-stalls, open-air opticians, and even 


22 


<P, 


bebebbbbbbetbbbbbbtte be 
MILAN 


a marionette show ; human life with its triviality moves 
and swarms at the foot of the majestic edifice ; there is 
always the same contrast between the sublime idea and 
the coarse fact; the temple of the Lord casts its shadow 


upon a Punchinello show. 


THE LAST SUPPER— VERONA 


P “HE next day my first visit was to Santa Maria 
delle Grazie, the beautiful church attributed 
to Bramante, built of brick which shows 

like a rosy flush through the plaster-work broken in 

many places, and gives to the building, although greatly 
out of repair, an appearance of life and youth. The 
side chapels are adorned with frescoes representing tor- 
tures. Over the door of one of these chapels are two 
bronze medallions representing the Virgin and Christ, 
most unctuous in expression and delicate in workman- 
ship. ‘Ihe low vault, the marble overlaying, the fa- 
cetted mirrors, the crystals which decorate them are 
quite in the Spanish taste, and I saw a chapel exactly 
like that in the Convent of Santa Monica at Cordova. 
Leaving the church by the sacristy, the ceiling of 
which is covered with gilded stars, one enters the clois- 
ter of the convent. War dwells in the antique refuge 
of peace; soldiers, the monks of violence, have re- 


placed the monks, the solitaries of peace. A monas- 


34 


che oho oh ole be chy obs obs ob ofr abe coals be ob abe be ote cfc obe of afro 
‘Trt LAS EE oa P PER -AV-E:R ON A 


tery is easily turned into a barracks; regiments and 
religious communities, solitary multitudes, are alike in 
one respect, —they have no family. The pavement of 
the long arcades, which echoed formerly to the monoto- 
nous sound of sandals, now re-echoes to the grounding 
of arms; drums beat where bells tinkled, oaths break 
out where prayers were whispered, brutal military life 
spreads through the courtyards; everywhere are gun 
limbers, racks of arms, cooking-utensils and victuals, — 
the disciplined disorder of a camp. Along the walls, 
worn by the weather, carelessness, or the impious 
coarseness of the soldiery, are yet to be discerned 
paintings representing the miracles of the founder of 
the order, constantly occupied in repelling the tempta- 
tions of the devil, who appears to him sometimes in the 
shape of a cat, sometimes in that of a monkey, or bet- 
ter still, under the features of a lovely woman. 

Leonardo da Vinci’s “ Last Supper ”’ is on the wall 
at the end of the refectory ; on the opposite wall is a 
“Crucifixion” by Montorfano, bearing the date of 
1495. The painting is good, but who can stand up 
by the side of Leonardo da Vinci? 

Undoubtedly the state of decay of this masterpiece 


of human genius is most regrettable, yet it is not as 


35 


$hECHE EAA AAAS tse settee 
TRAV BES cl N . bbe 


hurtful as might be supposed. Leonardo da Vinci is, 
above all, the painter of mystery, of the inexpressible, 
of twilight; his paintings recall musical compositions 
in the minor key. His shadows are veils which he 
half draws aside, or thickens so that the spectator shall 
guess at the secret thought; the tones of his colouring 
are deadened like the colours of objects in the moon- 
light, the contours are softened and mellowed as if 
veiled by black gauze, and time, which diminishes the 
beauty of other paintings, adds to that of Leonardo’s 
work by increasing the harmonious obscurity in which 
he loves to dwell. 

The first impression made by this marvellous fresco 
has something dream-like about it. All trace of art has 
disappeared; the fresco seems to float on the surface 
of the wall which absorbs it as if it were a light mist. 
It is the shadow of a painting, the ghost of a master- 
piece. The effect produced is perhaps more solemn 
and religious than if the painting itself were living ; 
the body has disappeared, but the soul survives. 

Christ is at the centre of the table, having on his 
right Saint John, the well-beloved Apostle, who, in an 
attitude of adoration, with gentle, attentive look, half- 


opened lips and silent mien, bends respectfully and 


36 


btetebetbetttetttttttttttet 
THE LAST SUPPER—VERONA 


affectionately as if pressing his heart upon the Divine 
Master. Leonardo has given the Apostles strongly 
marked, rude faces, for the Apostles were all fishermen, 
workmen, and men of the people. The vigour of 
their features denotes the power of the muscles, and 
shows that they belong to the new-born Church. 
John, with his feminine face, his delicate features, 
his fine and exquisite complexion, seems to be an 
angel rather than a man; he is more ethereal than 
terrestrial) more poetic than dramatic, more of a lover 
than of a believer; he symbolises the transition be- 
tween the human and the divine. Christ bears im- 
printed on His face the ineffable gentleness of the 
voluntary victim; the azure of paradise shines in His 
eyes, and the words of peace and consolation fall from 
His lips like the celestial manna in the desert. “The 
tender blue of His glance, His pallid complexion, —a 
reflection of which seems to have fallen upon the 
Charles I by Van Dyck, —reveal the sufferings of the 
inner cross borne with trustful resignation; He has 
resolutely accepted His end, and does not turn away 
from the bitter cup in that last supper. In that face 
of incomparable suavity one recognises the wholly 


moral hero whose soul is his strength. The port of 


37 


BEAEAKE ALAA ALLS Ae etsetttts 


He ae Gee OFS one oee we « 


WRAV. EIS SUN: [ia 


the head, the fineness of the skin, the delicately robust 
joints, the clean form of the fingers, everything de- 
notes an aristocratic nature amid the plebeian and 
rustic faces of his companions. Jesus Christ is the 
Son of God, but He belongs also to the race of the 
Kings of Judah. Did not a purely spiritual religion 
require a gentle, noble, purely spiritual leader whom 
little children might approach without fear? In place 
of Jesus put Socrates, and the character of that supreme 
scene is immediately modified. “The.one will ask that 
a cock be sacrificed to Aésculapius; the other will offer 
Himself for victim. The beauty of Greek art is here 
surpassed by the serenity of Christian art. 

I might have remained many days longer in Milan 
and visited the sixteen Corinthian columns of San 
Lorenzo, the great hospital of Beljioso, and many a 
splendid and beautiful church; but I make it a practice 
to seek nothing after a profound impression, and noth- 
ing could surpass Leonardo da Vinci’s ‘“* Last Supper.” 
Besides, Venice attracted me irresistibly. 

I traversed Brescia by’ night; from Brescia to 
Verona there is nothing worth mentioning save a 
glimpse of Lago di Garda near Peschiera; for like the 
gods of Homer I travelled in a cloud — of dust. The 


Psi 


che fe obs obo of fe abe obs che abe abe abnche obo obo obs of obs abe ofr ofr abe feof 


Te CVE ore obs obs abe ofe 


WH bal aA Sel Sethe Ven oet 


first aspect of Verona— the name of which inevitably 
recalls Romeo and Juliet, whom Shakespeare’s genius 
has made two real beings that history would willingly 
believe in—Jis very picturesque. ‘The road follows 
for a time the Adige, which is crossed by a great, 
curious bridge of red brick with immense arches, 
parapets with Moorish crenellations recalling those of 
the walls of Seville, and steps which prevent carriages 
from crossing over. Red towers with dentellated sum- 
mits break the sky line very happily, and a splendid 
antique gateway, composed of two orders of superim- 
posed pillars and arcades, majestically receives the 
pilgrims. 

The Capulets and Montagues might even now 
quarrel in the streets of Verona, and Tybalt slay 
Mercutio, for the scene is unchanged. Shakespeare’s 
tragedy is wonderfully accurate. At Verona, as in a 
Spanish city, every house has a balcony from which 
may be suspended a silken ladder. Few cities have 
better preserved their medieval characteristics. The 
Gothic arches, the trefoiled windows, the traceried 
balconies, the pillared houses, the carvings on the 
corners of the streets, the great mansions with their 


bronze knockers and their richly wrought gratings, 


39 


kkeeeeeetetttetttt tt tttt 
UeRAGYV BS aN ieee 


their entablatures surmounted by statues and full of 
architectural detail which the pencil alone can repro- 
duce take you back to past times and induce a feeling 
of surprise at the sight of modern costumes and Aus- 
trian Uhlans in the streets. 

This sensation is particularly strong on the market- 
square, which is filled with watermelons, citrons, limes, 
and tomatoes. ‘The houses, covered with frescoes by 
Paolo Albasini, with their projecting balconies, their 
sculptured ornaments, their robust columns, have a 
most Romanesque appearance. Pillars with intricate 
capitals give the finishing touch to this square, which is 
full of admirable subjects for water-colour painters and 
decorators. It is the most animated part of the city ; 
women are seen at every window, on every doorstep, 
and the crowd swarms between the stalls of the 
dealers. 

The short time at my disposal compelling me to 
choose between the apocryphal tomb of Juliet, a sort 
of trough of reddish marble half-buried in a garden, 
the tombs of the Scaligers in the open street, and the 
Roman Amphitheatre, I selected the latter, which is 
better preserved than even the Arles amphitheatre. 


The great arena lacks only the outer wall, five or six 


40 


HLEAKALALDAALLAAAAALALL LAL LLSA 
THE LAST SUPPER—VERONA 


arches of which remaining intact would make the 
restoration of the remainder exceedingly easy. A few 
weeks’ labour would allow of the reproduction within 
its bounds of the bloody games of the circus. It is 
easy to recognise the stalls of the Jde//uaria and the 
wild beasts, the entrances and exits for the actors and 
for the spectators, and the drain by which the waters 
used in naval displays were carried away ; all that is 
lacking is the public. As if to give an opportunity 
to compare modern mediocrity with the grandeur of 
antiquity, a theatre of wooden boards has been built 
within the arena. It encloses but a few of the 
benches, while twenty-two thousand people could sit 


down comfortably in the Roman amphitheatre. 


4I 


LEAL ELS LN. die 


bettttbetetttettttttt test 


AM somewhat ashamed of the Italian sky, which 
in Paris we always believed to be of an unchang- 
ing blue, for when I left Verona great black 

clouds were rising on the horizon. It is a pity to 
begin a trip to a country of sunshine by descriptions 
of storms, but truth compels me to confess that rain 
was falling heavily, first in the distance, then on the 
middle distance of the country through which I was 
travelling by rail. che background of the picture 
was composed of cloud-capped mountains and hills, on 
which rose mansions and country homes; the fore- 
ground was formed of very green, very vivid, and very 
picturesque cultivated fields. “The vine is not planted 
in Italy as it is in France; it is trained to climb in the 
form of arbours and to wind upon poles on which its 
foliage hangs in festoons. Nothing can be more 
graceful than these long rows of trees which, con- 
nected with each other by the tendrils of the vine, 


seem to hold each others’ hands and to dance a great 


42 


farandola around the fields. ‘They look like a chorus 
of vegetable Bacchantes which delight to celebrate in 
autumn the ancient festival of Lyzus. These vine- 
tendrils passing from branch to branch impart a won- 
derful elegance to the landscape. Here and there 
open farmhouses allowed one to see labourers enjoying 
their evening meal under their porticos, and gave life 
to the picture. 

The railway passes close to Vicenza and soon reaches 
Padua, concerning which I can merely repeat the stage 
directions for the setting of “ Angelo”: ‘On the hori- 
zon the sky line of mediaval Padua.’”’ A tower and a 
few steeples standing out against a pale strip of sky 
were all that I could see. The weather did not 
improve. Blasts of wind, gusts of rain and sudden 
flashes of lightning pursued us constantly ; it was 
almost cold. 

Although the train was running at high speed, it 
seemed to me, so great was my impatience, that I 
was travelling on one of the cars drawn by snails 
seen in Raphael’s arabesques. Every man, whether 
he be a poet or not, makes an ideal home for him- 
self in one or two cities in which he dwells in 


dreams, inventing the architecture of the palaces, of 


a 


oh oe ae fe oe he he oe oe abe abe decd eae che rob abe cde de abe deo 
iR AV Ess ei N oD Asie 


the streets, of the houses, and the general aspect, much 
as Piranesi loved to create in his etchings fantastic 
buildings, possessed, however, of a strong and mysteri- 
ous reality. What lays the foundations of this intuitive 
city? It would be difficult to tell. Narrations, en- 
gravings, a glimpse of a map, sometimes the euphony 
or the singularity of the name, a tale read in one’s 
early youth, the merest trifle,—all add to it. For 
myself three cities have always greatly preoccupied me, 
Granada, Venice, and Cairo. I was able to compare 
the real Granada with my own and to sleep in the 
Alhambra; but life is so ill arranged, it passes in such 
awkward fashion, that as yet I knew Venice only 
through the image produced in the camera obscura of 
my brain, —an image often so deeply imprinted that 
reality itself finds it difficult to efface it. I was within 
half an hour of the real Venice, and I, who never 
wish that a single grain of sand should fall faster in the 
hour-glass, so sure am I that death will come, —I 
would willingly have abridged my life by those thirty 
minutes. As for Cairo, thatyis quite another matter, — 
and besides, Gérard de Nerval had seen it in my place. 

In spite of the rain which lashed my face, I bent out 


of the carriage window in the endeavour to perceive in 


44 


ARE irre oan ara ner pari ew 
Vit N FCB 


the shadow the distant loom of Venice, a faint silhou- 
ette of a tower, a gleam of light, but the night was 
becoming darker, and the horizon was impenetrable. 
At last, at one station, travellers for Mestre were told 
to alight. It was at Mestre that boats were formerly 
taken for Venice; now the railway has replaced the 
gondola; a long bridge crosses the lagoon and con- 
nects Venice with the mainland. 

Never have I felt a stranger impression. ‘The train 
was entering upon the long causeway. ‘The heavens 
had the appearance of a dome of basalt rayed with dun 
rays; on either side the lagoon, of a deeper black than 
the darkness of night, stretched away into the unknown ; 
from time to time the glare of lightnings revealed the 
waters in a sudden blaze, and the train seemed to pro- 
ceed through the void like a hippogriff in a nightmare, 
for neither the heavens, the water, nor the bridge were 
visible. It was not the sort of entry into Venice that 
I had dreamed of, but it was far more fantastic than 
even Martins’ imagination could have devised in the 
way of mystery, stupendousness, and awe when design- 
ing a Babylonian or Ninevite avenue. Storm and night 
had prepared the picture which the lightning drew in 


lines of fire, and our locomotive recalled the chariots 


45 


bebebetttbeetebtttttttee 


ore oe Ome ote 


TRA V Eesti DN © tT Area 


of fire with wheels of flame that bore the prophets to 
the seventh heaven. 

To arrive by night in a city which one has dreamed 
of for many and many a year is not an uncommon 
occurrence when travelling, but it is calculated to ex- 
cite curiosity to the point of exasperation. ‘To enter 
the dwelling of one’s dream with bandaged eyes is the 
most irritating thing imaginable. I had already experi- 
enced this at Granada, into which I was conveyed by 
stage-coach at two o’clock in the morning in Cimme- 
rian darkness. The gondola into which I had got on 
leaving the train, proceeded first along a very broad 
canal, on the banks of which loomed faintly dark build- 
ings starred with a few lighted windows and lanterns 
which cast long, quivering beams of light on the black, 
rippling water. Then it entered narrow waterways 
with exceedingly complicated turns. “Tvhe storm which 
was passing away still lighted the heavens with livid 
gleams, which enabled me to catch a glimpse of long 
perspectives and of strange outlines of unknown pal- 
aces. We passed under bridg'es, the two ends of which 
made a break in the compact, sombre mass of houses. 
At some of the corners the faint light of a lamp flickered 


before a Madonna. Curious guttural cries sounded at 


46 


cabo oe ofa ls be oe oe he betel obec eo abo abe coe oat 


wT eTo ete OTS CFS OFF ale eTe we ove ‘e 


VEN ECE 


the turns of the canals; a gliding coffin with a bend- 
ing shadow at one end, passed rapidly by; a low 
window, close to which we swept, gave us a glimpse 
of an interior lighted by a lamp or reflected light, recall- 
ing Rembrandt’s etchings; doors, the threshold of 
which was lapped by the waters, gave passage to myste- 
rious figures that vanished at once; staircases dipped 
into the canal and seemed to rise through the shadow 
towards mysterious Babels; the striped posts to which 
the gondolas are made fast in front of the sombre 
facades looked like spectres. On the bridges faint 
human shapes, like wan figures in a dream, watched us 
pass by. Sometimes every light disappeared, and we 
proceeded in sinister fashion amid four kinds of dark- 
ness: the oily, dank, deep darkness of the waters, the 
tempestuous darkness of the night sky, and the opaque 
darkness of the two walls, on one of which the 
gondola’s lantern cast reddish gleams which showed 
pedestals, shafts of pillars, porticos, and gratings that 
disappeared forthwith. 

Every object on which fell in this darkness a stray 
beam of light, assumed mysterious, fantastic, terrifying 
and exaggerated proportions. The water, always so 


awesome at night, increased the effect by its low rip- 


47 


RADA ALE PL SAA tt ttttttes 
BRAY aS GLIN Fol tte 


pling, its universality, and its restlessness. The gleam 
of the few lamps cast long, bloodlike trails upon it, and 
its dense mass, black as Cocytus, seemed to stretch its 
complacent mantle over crimes untold. It surprised 
me not to hear the fall of a dead body hurled from a 
balcony or a half-opened door. Never was reality 
more unreal than that on that evening; I seemed to be 
living in a novel of Maturin’s or Lewis’ or Anne Rad- 
cliffe’s illustrated by Goya, Piranesi, or Rembrandt; 
the old stories of the Three Inquisitors, of the Council 
of Ten, of the Bridge of Sighs, the Wells and the 
Leads, of executions on the Orfano Canal, of the 
melodramatic and the Romanticist stage-setting of old 
Venice, came back to my memory in spite of myself, 
made more sombre still by reminiscences of “ The 
Confessional of the Black Penitents”’ and “ Abellino, 
or The Great Bandit.” I was filled with terror, cold, 
dank, and dark as all around, and [| involuntarily thought 
of Malipiero’s speech to Tisbé when he depicts the ter- 
ror the name of Venice fills him with. ‘This impression 
is absolutely accurate, though,it may seem exaggerated, 
and | think that even the most positive Philistine would 
find it difficult to avoid it. I will go further and say 


that it is the true meaning of Venice, which emerges 


48 


LEELA ALALALLLLALALLL LLL LLS 
VENICE 


at night out of modern transformations, — Venice, a city 
which seems to have been built by a scene painter, and 
the manners and customs of which seem to have been 
arranged by a dramatic author, for the purpose of 
making plots and dénouements more interesting. Dark- 
ness restores the mystery which it loses in the daylight, 
puts on its commonplace inhabitants the mask and 
domino of old days, and imparts to the most ordinary 
motions of life a look of intrigue and crime. Every 
door that half opens seems to give egress to a lover or 
a bravo, every gondola which glides by silently must 
surely bear away a couple of lovers or a dead body 
with a broken stiletto planted in its heart. 

At last our craft stopped at the foot of a marble 
staircase, the lower steps of which were bathed by the 
sea, in front of a facade every window of which was 
lighted up. We had reached the former Palazzo 
Giustiniani, now transformed into a hotel, as is the 
case with several other Venetian palaces. Half a 
dozen gondolas lay in front of the door like carriages 
awaiting their owners. A great monumental staircase 
led to the upper stories, on each of which was a long 
hall and side apartments looking out on the canal and 


on the mainland. 


4 49 


HELPP ALAA APSA ttstetee 


RAV ES UN Ae 


a 


_ 


While awaiting supper, I leaned on the balcony 
ornamented with marble columns and Moorish arches. 
The rain had stopped; the clear, well-washed sky was 
brilliant ; the stars of the Milky Way showed against 
the darker azure like unnumbered millions of white 
spots, and numerous meteors rayed the horizon with 
their swiftly vanishing trail of light. A few brilliant 
points, stars upon earth, shone on the other bank, 
which was partially revealed; the faint outline of a 
dome showed on my right on the opposite side of the 
canal, and as I bent forward, I discovered on the left a 
blazing line of lights, which I imagined must be the 
lamps on the Piazzetta. Other sparks of light, like 
those which dot burnt paper, wound about on the dark 
background. ‘These were the lanterns of gondolas 
going and coming. 

The next morning my first impulse was to run to 
the balcony. I was at the extrance to the Grand 
Canal, opposite the Dogana, a handsome edifice with 
columns in the Rustic order, adorned with bosses and 
supporting a square tower ending in two Hercules 
kneeling back to back and bearing upon their robust 
shoulders a globe upon which turns a nude figure of 


Fortune, bald behind and with long hair in front, hold- 


50 


SLEECE¢EE SEPA ttt ttt 


ing back with its hands the two ends of a veil which 
forms a vane and yields to the slightest breath of wind ; 
for this figure is hollow like the Giralda at Seville. 
Near the Dogana rose the white dome of Santa Maria 
della Salute, with its volutes, its pentagonal stair- 
case, and its wealth of statues. I at once recognised 
the Salute from the beautiful painting by Canaletto in 
the Louvre. In the background I caught sight of the 
Giudecca Point and the island of San Giorgio Maggiore, 
on which, above the Austrian battery, rises Palladio’s 
church with its Greek facade, its Oriental dome, and 
its Venetian belfry of the brightest rose. “There was a 
swimming bath at the mouth of the canal, and numerous 
craft of varying tonnage, from the fishing-boat to the 
steamer and the full-rigged ship, the spars and rigging 
of which were outlined against the serene blue of the 
morning. The boats which bring provisions to the 
city were coming up under sail or propelled by oars. 
It was a beautiful picture, as bright as that of the pre- 
vious evening was sombre. 

It is difficult for a stranger to traverse Venice on 
foot, so my first care was to hire a gondola. Although 
this craft has been worked to death in comic operas, 


songs, and tales, that is no reason why it should not 


51 


tebbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb bbb tbs 
TRA V Basia Nl Area 


be better known. It is the natural product of Venice, 
an animated being with its particular local life, a sort 
of fish which can exist only in the waters of a canal; 
the lagoon and the gondola are inseparable ; they com- 
plete each other. Venice is impossible without the 
gondola; the craft is narrow and long, turned up at 
the two ends, drawing but little water; in general 
outline it resembles a skate. The prow is provided 
with a flat, polished piece of iron which has a distant 
resemblance to the neck of a swan, or rather, to the 
handle of a violin with its keys. Six teeth, the inter- 
stices of which are sometimes adorned with open- 
work, help out the resemblance. ‘This piece of iron 
is an ornament, a defence, and a counterweight, the 
boat being more heavily trimmed aft. By the rail of 
the gondola, near the bow and the stern, are two pieces 
of wood shaped like ox-yokes on which the gon- 
dolier leans his oar, he himself standing on a low plat- 
form with his heel set against a chock. “The whole 
boat is tarred or painted black; the floor is brightened 
with a more or less rich carpet; in the centre is placed 
a cabin, or fe/ze, which can easily be removed when 
it is desired to substitute an awning,—a piece of 


modern degeneracy which makes every good Venetian 


52 


RLEKEA¢SEAE ALAA S AAs tts 
Vig N ECE 


groan. The fe/ze is hung with black cloth and pro- 
vided with two soft cushions of morocco leather of the 
same colour, with sloping backs. In addition there 
are two folding seats on either side, so that four people 
can be accommodated. On each side of the cabin is 
cut a window, usually left open, but which may be 
closed in one of three ways: first, by a plate of Vene- 
tian glass bevelled or with a framework of flowers en- 
graved on the glass; secondly, by a blind with movable 
slats so that one can see without being seen; and 
thirdly, by a curtain, over which, if one desires more 
privacy, may be dropped the hangings of the /e/ze. 
These three different blinds slide along a groove. The 
door, which one has to enter backwards, for it would 
be difficult to turn in the narrow space, has only a 
window and a shutter. The wooden part of the door 
is carved with greater or less richness according to the 
means of the owner or the taste of the gondolier. On 
the left side of the casing of the door shines a copper 
shield surmounted by a coronet, on which the owner 
engraves his coat of arms or his monogram; above 
there is a small glazed frame which opens from within 
and which holds the image of the personage to whom 


the owner or the gondolier is especially devoted, — the 


53 


PKLLLALD AA APALAAAALALA?L ELSA 
TaRACY ES eal Nel 


Blessed Virgin, Saint Mark, Saint Theodore, or Saint 
George. It is on that side also, but still lower, that 
the lantern is hung, a custom which is beginning to 
disappear, for many gondolas travel without their star 
in front. The left is the place of honour, on account 
of the coat of arms, the saint, and the lantern; it is the 
seat taken by ladies, aged persons, and distinguished 
personages. At the back a movable panel affords com- 
munication with the gondolier posted at the stern. He 
it is who steers the craft, his sweep being used at one 
and the same time as a sweep and asa rudder. “Iwo 
silk cords help you to rise when you want to go out, 
for you are seated very low. The cloth hangings of 
the fe/ze are adorned on the inside with tassels of silk 
not unlike those on priests’ hats, and when you desire 
to shut yourself up completely, the cloth covers up the 
back of the cabin like the pall upon a coffin. To com- 
plete the description, I must add that the inside of the 
rail is adorned with white arabesques upon a black 
background. The general appearance is certainly not 
cheerful, and yet, if we are to believe Byron’s Beppo, 
there occur inside these black gondolas scenes as 
comical as in the carriages at a funeral. Madame 


Malibran, who disliked greatly to enter these small 


a 


VENICE 


catafalques, tried, but unsuccessfully, to have the colour 
changed. It seems gloomy to us, but it does not strike 
Venetians in this way, for they are accustomed to the 
use of black by the sumptuary laws of their old re- 
public, and with them the hearses and palls and the 
undertakers wore red. 

I had chosen a gondola with two men. The steers- 
man, tanned by the sun, with his little Venetian cap on 
the back of his head, a thick collar of tawny beard, 
sleeves rolled up, white trousers and belt, fully recalled 
his former prototypes. The one in the bow, much 
more of a modern dandy, wore a cap, from below 
which showed a lovelock ; a striped cotton jacket, and 
modern trousers, and thus united in his person the gon- 
dolier and the guide. As it was fine, an awning with 
blue and white stripes had, much to my regret, taken 
the place of the fe/ze, under which I would willingly 
have stifled with heat through sheer love of local 
colour. 

I gave directions to be taken at once to the Piazza 
San Marco. As we pushed off, I had an opportunity 
to observe the facade of the hotel, which was really 
splendid, with its three stories of balconies, its Moorish 


windows, and its slender marble columns. But for a 


a 


bhbbbttetetetttettttttee 
TRAV Bebe (rN vl TP Acie 


wretched sign placed over the portico and bearing the 
words, “Hétel de lEurope, chez Marseille,’ the 
Palazzo Giustiniani would have looked exactly as it 
does on Albert Durer’s superb plan, save for the two 
windows on the third story cut by the side of the 
original bay, which is still visible in the wall; and 
the former owners, if they were to return from the 
other world in the gondola of Charon, the boatman of 
Hades, would easily find their dwelling on the Grand 
Canal, still intact, though dishonoured. It is a peculiar- 
ity of Venice that, although its drama has come to an 
end, the setting of the past has remained in its place. 

The gondoliers row standing, bending over their 
oars. One wonders that they do not constantly fall 
into the water, for the whole weight of their bodies 
bears forward. Long habit gives them the skill needed 
to preserve that attitude; during their apprenticeship 
they must tumble over more than once. ‘They are 
wonderfully clever in avoiding collisions, in shaving 
corners, coming alongside traghett: (ferry landings) or 
steps. The gondola answers the helm so quickly that 
it seems to be a living being. 

A few strokes of the sweeps soon brought me to 


one of the most marvellous prospects which the human 


56 


eye can behold, —the Piazzetta seen from the sea. 
Standing in the bow of the motionless gondola, I gazed 
for some time in mute ecstasy upon that unrivalled 
picture, the only one, perhaps, that imagination cannot 
surpass. On the left, looking from seaward, the trees 
in the Royal Garden form a green line above the white 
terraces; next come the Zecca (or Mint), and the old 
Library, the work of Sansovino, with its elegant arches 
and its crown of mythological statues; on the right, 
separated by aspace which forms the Piazzetta— the 
vestibule to the Piazza San Marco — the Palace of the 
Doges shows its golden facade with its diaper of rose 
and white marble, its massive pillars, supporting a 
gallery of slender columns, the ribbing of which con.-. 
tains quatrefoils, with six ogival windows, a monu- 
mental balcony enriched with brackets, niches, finials, 
statues, and surmounted by a statue of the Virgin; its 
acroter, the acanthus leaves of which alternate against 
the sky with a spiral fillet, which runs up the angles 
and ends in traceried pinnacles. At the back of the 
Piazzetta towards the Library rises to a prodigious 
height the Campanile, a great brick tower with high- 
pitched roof surmounted by a golden angel. Near the 


Palace of the Doges is seen a corner of the peristyle of 


“W) 


HELLAALL LAL AAD ALAAL ALLL ALS 
DRA V ERS oil dA 


San Marco which faces on the Piazza. The prospect 
is closed by the Procuratie Vecchie and the Clock 
Tower with its bronze jacks, its lion of St. Mark on 
a starry blue ground, and its great azure dial on which 
are marked the twenty-four hours. 

In the foreground, opposite the landing-place for 
gondolas, between the Library and the Palace of the 
Doges, rise two huge, monolithic columns of African 
granite, formerly rose-coloured, but now washed with 
cooler tones by rain and weather. On the left one, as 
viewed from the sea, stands in a triumphant attitude, 
his brow encircled by a metal halo, sword by his side, 
lance in hand, leaning upon his shield, a Saint Theodore 
of splendid port trampling a crocodile under foot; on 
the right hand one, the Lion of Saint Mark in bronze, 
wings displayed, lips turned back, one paw on the 
Gospel, turning its back to Saint Theodore’s crocodile 
with the fiercest and grimmest look that a_ heraldic 
animal can have. ‘The two monsters appear to be 
determined not to be good company. 

It is said to be unlucky to land between the two 
columns, where formerly executions took place, and I 

requested the gondolier, when landing me, to do so at 


the staircase on the Zecca or at the Ponte della Paglia 


58 


HLEAALALE LAS AA AAA tsetse tts 
VENICE 


(Bridge of Straws), not caring in the least to end like 
Marino Faliero, who came to grief because a storm had 
thrown him at the foot of these formidable pillars. 
Beyond the Palace of the Doges is seen the New 
Prison, with which it is connected by the Bridge of 
Sighs, a sort of cenotaph suspended over the Canal 
della Paglia; then a curving line of palaces, houses, 
churches, buildings of all kinds which forms the Riva 
degli Schiavoni (Quay of the Slavonians) and which 
ends in the green masses of the Public Garden on the 
point which stretches into the sea. Near the Zecca 
debouches the Grand Canal and rises the Dogana di 
Mare, which, with the public Garden, forms the two 
ends of that panoramic curve along which Venice 
stretches like a marine Venus. 

I have noted as accurately as I could the principal 
features of the picture, but what should be rendered is 
the effect, the colour, the mass, the shimmer of air and 
water, the life. How can I express the rosy tones of 
the Palace of the Doges which seems like lovely flesh, 
the snowy whiteness of the statues, the contours of 
which show against the azure of Veronese and Titian, 
the glow of the Campanile caressed by the sun, the 


flash of the distant gilding, the innumerable aspects of 


59 


che oho oe abe oe che che be oh cb cb bech hecho cle choc obo ale oh abe deh 
TRAV EGS aN jl Ames 


the sea, sometimes transparent as a mirror, sometimes 
sparkling like a dancer’s skirt? Who can paint the in- 
finite, luminous atmosphere full of beams and of haze, 
with its sunshine and clouds; the coming and going of 
gondolas, of boats, of argosils, of galliots, the red and 
the white sails, the vessels with their cutwaters touch- 
ing the quays, with their innumerable picturesque 
details of flags, nets, and lines hung up to dry; sailors 
loading and unloading ships, boxes carried out, barrels 
rolled along; the varied, many-coloured people on the 
quays, Dalmatians, Greeks, Levantines, and others 
whom Canaletti would mark with a single touch? 
How can I show all this at once, as in nature, when I 
am compelled to name one thing after another? For 
the poet, less fortunate than the painter and the musi- 
cian, can use but a single line; the former has _ his 
whole palette, the second his whole orchestra. 

The landing-place at the Piazzetta is adorned with 
Gothic lanterns, ornamented with figures of saints and 
planted on posts that rise out of the water. One of 
these lanterns was presented) by the Duchess of Berry. 
Gondolas crowd at this fairy landing, which is the most 
frequented of all. In order to reach the shore, the 


axe-head of the gondola has to be used like a wedge in 


60 


order to divide the clustering mass. When you land, 
numbers of old and young ragged beggars hasten up 
provided with sticks with a nail at the end, with which 
they hook the boat as with a boat-hook and steady 
it while you set foot on shore, an operation which at 
first is somewhat difficult in consequence of the ex- 
treme crankiness of the frail craft. It is well under- 
stood, of course, that this anxious care is not intended 
to prevent your falling in or wetting your feet on a 
lower step. A dirty hand or a filthy cap, humbly out- 
stretched, invites you to drop in an Austrian penny or 
cent as a recompense for the service done. 

On the bases of the two columns are seated gondo- 
liers waiting for customers, mendicants, half-naked 
children who seek a living on the streets of Venice, 
—a whole Picaresque population that worships sun- 
shine and far niente. Formerly the bases of the col- 
umns were adorned with sculptures, now, alas! worn 
away by constant rubbing. They appear to have beer 
intended to represent figures holding fruits and foliage. 
Saint Theodore’s pillar leans somewhat towards the 
Library, that of the Lion of Saint Mark towards 
the Palace of the Doges. The Piazzetta facade of the 


Palace of the Doges is similar to that on the water 


61 


checked de oh de ok ob ec teab ech och check check 
TRAV Bis a Ni 1 tAgan 


side. It has, like the latter, a great window, whence 
Manin, when resigning the provisional government 
after the capitulation of Venice in 1849, harangued the 
people for the last time. At the end of the facade is 
the Piazza, which lies at right angles to it and, as its 
name indicates, is very much larger. 

The four sides of the Piazza are formed by the 
facade of the Basilica of San Marco, situated near the 
Palace of the Doges, the Clock Tower, the Procuratie 
Vecchie and the Procuratie Nueve, which are com- 
panion buildings, and an ugly modern palace in the 
classical taste, stupidly built in 1809 to provide a 
Throne Room, in the place of the charming church of 
San Germiniano, the elegant style of which corresponded 
so well with that of the Basilica. “The Campanile, 
adorned at its base by a charming little building by 
Sansovino, called the Loggetta, stands alone at the 
corner of the Procuratie Nueve. On nearly the same 
line are planted the three flag-staffs from which for- 
merly flew the standards of the Republic. 

From the end of the square the prospect is fairylike 
and dazzling, however well prepared one may be by 
paintings and descriptions. ‘There stands San Marco, 


with its five cupolas, its porticos brilliant with mosaics 


62 


bebebhd dt ttetetetetettsetetee 
VeEP Ne EC FE 


and golden pigments, its traceried finials, its immense 
stained-glass window, in front of which rear the four 
horses of Lysippus, its gallery of slender columns, its 
winged lion, its ogee gables with their fleurons of foliage 
that bear statues, its pillars of porphyry and antique 
marbles, its triple aspect of temple, basilica, and mosque ; 
a strange and mysterious, exquisite and barbaric build- 
ing, an immense heaping up of riches, a pirates’ church 
formed of pieces stolen or won from every civilisation. 

A brilliant light made the great Evangelist shine 
again under his starry sky, the mosaics sparkled, the 
silvery gray cupolas showed like the domes of Saint 
Sophia’s in Constantinople, and flocks of doves flew 
constantly from the cornices of the balustrades and 
lighted fearlessly on the square. It seemed to be an 
Oriental dream turned to stone by the might of some 
enchanter, a Moorish church or Christian mosque built 
by a converted Caliph. 

Like the Seville Giralda, the Campanile has no 
stairs. It is ascended by a slope up which one could 
ride, so gentle is it. The interior is formed of a brick, 
cage-like structure, with long openings, around which 
winds the slope. At every pillar a small loophole, cut 


out of one of the faces of the tower, admits sufficient 


63 


KEALEALEELLALEAL SAA ALL ALS 
TRAVELS! IN VITALLY 


light. After a long climb you reach the platform on 
which are the bells. Red and green marble columns ~ 
support four arches, one on each face of the Campanile, 
which allow the eye to wander over the whole extent of 
the horizon. A spiral staircase enables the sight-seer 
to ascend still higher up to the foot of the gilded angel, 
but it is useless fatigue to do so, for the whole panorama 
of Venice is easily seen from the lower platform. 

Leaning on the balcony and looking below and sea- 
ward, is seen, first, the roof of Sansovino’s Library, cov- 
ered with Venuses, Neptunes, Mars, and other allegorical 
figures. It is now the Royal Palace. Next comes the 
roof of the Palace of the Doges, covered with sheets of 
lead. “The glance reaches down into the court of the 
Zecca, and the Piazzetta, with its pillars and gondolas, 
shows its pavement divided into compartments ; beyond 
is the sea, studded with islands and vessels. 

San Giorgio Maggiore, with its red steeple, its two 
white bastions, its basin, its girdle of vessels attracted 
by the Porto Franco, lies in the foreground. It is sepz- 
rated from the Giudecca by a canal. The Giudecca. 
the maritime suburb of Venice, with its line of houses 
towards the city, and its girdle of gardens towards the 


sea, has two churches, Santa Maria and I] Redentore, 


64 


£EDEA APE ALAA ttt tts 
VENICE 


the white cupola of which shelters a Capuchin convent. 
Beyond San Giorgio are seen the Sanita, a small island, 
San Servolo, with the lunatic asylum, and finally the 
Lido, a barren, sandy shore, which, with the long, nar- 
row, low spit of land called Malamocco, forms the ram- 
part of Venice against the waters of the Adriatic. 

Behind the Giudecca, farther and farther on the 
horizon, show against the blue sea the Grazia, San 
Clemente, the place of penitence and imprisonment for 
priests, Poveglia, the quarantine station, and beyond 
the Malamocco line, almost invisible in the glinting of 
the waters, the little island of San Pietro. The eye 
recognises these islands by one of the tall Venetian 
towers, of which the Campanile seems to be the proto- 
type. 

Over all this sea there is an infinite coming and go- 
ing of vessels, gondolas, and crafts of all kinds. Lines 
of posts mark along the lagoon the special channels, for 
the usual depth is not more than three or four feet. 
Beyond, the eye is lost in the great stretch of azure 
which might be mistaken for the sky, did not a sail 
gilded by a sunbeam undeceive you. The transparency 
of the sky, the limpidity of the water, the brilliancy of 
the light, the clearness of the outlines, the depth and 


5 65 


ch ct oe ote oh ce oe oe be cece cde eee obec eee ae ele 
TRAVELS ona ITALY 


delicacy of the tones, all combine to make this vast 
view dazzlingly splendid. 

If one turns towards the back of the Piazza, the 
prospect is equally varied. First there is the continua- 
tion of the Giudecca, the Dogana, with its wild-haired 
Fortune, the Salute, with its double dome; the entrance 
to the Grand Canal which, in spite of its breadth, soon 
disappears between the houses; San Moise and _ its 
steeple, joined to the church by a bridge; Santo 
Stefano, with its brick tower surmounted by a statue 
on a crescent; the great red church of Santa Maria 
Gloriosa dei Frari, the high pitched arch of which 
shows above the roofs; the black cupola of San 
Simeone Piccolo, the only one of this colour in Venice, 
because instead of being roofed with lead, it is roofed 
with copper, producing amid the silver coverings of 
the other churches the same effect as the armour 
of mysterious knights in mediaeval tourneys. “Then 
at the extremity of the still invisible canal, San 
Geremia, the dome and tower of which were struck 
by cannon-balls during the siege. Behind San Geremia 
show the green trees of the Botanical Gardens, and 
close to the railway station the Scalzi exhibit their 


facade, almost concealed by scaffolding. 


66 


VIEAN 1 @ FE 


Between these churches, which rise above ordinary 
buildings like the idea which gave them birth, spreads a 
swelling ocean of heaving roofs and tumbled tiles, and 
spring thousands of round, square, turban-shaped, tur- 
reted chimneys, and others swelling out like flower- 
pots, of the strangest and most unexpected shapes. 
Cut out some facade or some corner of a palace, stand- 
ing out from the crowd of houses, and you have a 
foreground bathed in a warm, clear, golden light, which 
brings out wondrously the delicate blue of the sea, 
which you behold above the roofs, marked only by two 
islands, San Angelo del Polvere and San Giorgio in 
Alga. 

On the far horizon the Euganean Mountains, a 
branch of the Friuli Alps, form a wavy, azure out- 
line. At the foot of the mountains, broad green strips 
denote the rich cultivated land of the main, and Padua 
shows against the sky line, softened by the distance. 
An ashy-coloured shore, laved probably by the tide, — 
for there is an ebb and flow in the Adriatic, though 
none in the Mediterranean, — forms a transition and a 
gradation between the land and the water. ‘The rail- 
way bridge, easily seen from this height, crosses the 


lagoon, connects Venice with the mainland, and turns 


67 


teeetbebetcetttttbtttttttte 
TARCAYV BESS: OLN Asie 


the island into a peninsula. Fusina and Mestre lie 
outside, the first to the left, the second to the right of 
the railway. 

The third arch of the Campanile, looking towards 
the Clock Tower, frames in Santa Maria del’ Orto, 
the tall red belfry and high, tiled roof of which are 
distinctly seen; Santi Apostoli with their lofty white 
turret adorned with a dial and a cross on a globe; 
the Gesuiti, with the mannered and tawdry statues of 
the facade showing against the blue of the sea; and 
then the usual accompaniment of chimneys and roofs. 
It is remarkable that nowhere is a trace of a canal to 
be seen; the cuts which these waterways should make 
amid the islands of houses are not even suspected. 
The whole prospect forms a compact block, a petrified 
tempest of tiles and roofs, upon which the churches 
show like vessels at anchor. 

Turning somewhat towards the right, the glance falls 
upon the bell-turret of the great cupola of Santi Gio- 
vanni e Paolo, a great brick building; the elegant 
tower of Santa Maria Formosa, which makes a white 
mark upon the tawny tints of the picture; and, beyond, 
the island of San Segundo, a little sea-girt fort; in the 


distance the cemetery, with its rose-coloured walls, 


68 


ALEALALEALAAALAAALALALAL ALLS 
VENICE 


marked by two churches, San Cristoforo and San 
Michele, a green spot studded with black crosses. In 
the same direction, near the centre of the lagoon, 
Murano, where was manufactured the Venice glass 
which still adorns many a sideboard, attracts the glance 
by the red campanile of its church degli Angeli, the 
roof of San Pietro, and three tall cypresses which rise 
like dark steeples out of a group of houses and trees. 

Looking out of the fourth arch of the campanile, 
beyond the Palace of the Doges, are seen San Fran- 
cesco della Vigna and its steeple, noticeable for its red 
panels with their edges of white, San Andrea, and San 
Zaccaria, whose gray dome surmounted with balls and 
crosses like the cross of San Marco, and its high facade 
formed of three rounded gables, rise from the maze 
of houses. The Arsenal, with its square tower, rose 
above, white below, its basins of gleaming water, its 
vast building sheds like the arches of an aqueduct; its 
pulleys, engines, and its general appearance of store- 
house and rope-walk; and farther away, the dome 
and steeple of San Pietro di Castello, the triangular 
gable and the spire of Santa Elena. 

Towards the open sea show Burano, Mazorbo, and 


Torcelle, where the first Veneti settled. Owing to the 


69 


LLALEALLALLLELALL ALLL ALLY 
DRA V Bator dh N wl dae 


distance, all one can see is a few green, cultivated 
fields, houses, and three churches, one of which is more 
discernible than the others; then beyond, sky or water, 
a white curl of foam, a passing sail, a gull soaring in 
the blue haze, a bright immensity, the greatest of 


immensities. 


7O 


ecb chck ch bck ob bbb edbeche check ch ohh oh chet 
Tin AJCEE SS, LN OLE ALY 


LEELA ALLLLLLAELAKAAALLAALEY 
SAN MARCO 


IKE the Mosque at Cordova, which it resem- 

bles in more than one respect, the Basilica 
of San Marco has greater superficial area 

than height, unlike Gothic churches which spring 
heavenwards with their lancets, their steeples, their 
finials. Ihe great square cupola is only one hundred 
and ten feet in height. San Marco has preserved the 
characteristics of primitive Christianity when, scarce 
emerged from the catacombs, it sought, not having yet 
designed a form of art for itself, to build a church with 
the remains of the temples of antiquity and on the lines 
of pagan art. Begun in 979 under Doge Pietro Orse- 
alo, the Basilica of San Marco was slowly completed, 
each century adding some treasure or some beauty ; 
and yet, strange as it may seem and contrary to all 
ideas of proportion, that agglomeration of pillars, capi- 
tals, bassi-relievi, enamels, mosaics, that mingling of 
the Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Arab, and Gothic styles, 


forms the most harmonious ensemble. 


71 


cho oe ae of obs he che oe abe cde cde che ob abe cbr be choses oe obec 
TSR AV BSS LN ONL Ae. 


This incoherent temple, in which a pagan could find 
an altar to Neptune, with its dolphins, its tritons, its 
shells turned into holy-water basins; in which a Mo- 
hammedan might believe himself in the AZihrab of his 
mosque as he beheld the lines inscribed on the vault 
like sourahs of the Koran; in which the Greek Chris- 
tian would find his Panagia crowned like an empress of 
Constantinople, his barbaric Christ with interlaced 
monogram, the special saints of his own calendar drawn 
in the manner of Pansolinos and the monkish painters 
of the holy mountain; in which the Roman Catholic 
feels that in the shadow of the naves illumined by the 
dun reflection of the golden mosaics, live and breathe 
the unshakable faith of early times, submission to dogma 
and to hieratic forms, the mysterious and deep Chris- 
tianity of the days of belief; — that church, I repeat, 
built of contradictory pieces, enchants and caresses the 
eye more than the most correct and symmetrical archi- 
tecture could possibly do. Unity springs here from 
diversity. Semicircular arches, Gothic arches, trefoils, 
slender pillars, fleurons, cupolas, marble slabs, back- 
grounds of gold, brilliant colours of mosaics, all com- 
bine with the most wondrous success to form the most 


magnificent monumental bouquet. 


72 


dodo h cb bbb bbb cheb dedeek babel 


SAN MARCO 


The facade has five portals giving access to the 
church, and two leading under the exterior side gal- 
leries; in other words, seven openings, three on either 
side of the great central porch. ‘The central portal is 
marked by two groups of four columns of porphyry 
and verd antique on the first story, and six on the sec- 
ond, which support the spring of the semicircular 
arch. The other porches have two pillars only at each 
of the two stories. I speak now of the facade only, 
for the interior of the porches is adorned with numer- 
ous other slender columns in cipolin and pentelican 
marble, jasper, and other costly materials. 

Let us examine more particularly the mosaics and 
ornaments of this wonderful portal. Beginning with 
the first arch on the sea side, there is, above a square 
door closed by an iron grating, a Byzantine plating in 
black and gold in the shape of a reliquary with two 
angels placed against the moulding of the edge. Above, 
in the tympanum of the arch, is a great mosaic with a 
golden background, representing the body of Saint 
Mark taken from the crypts of Alexandria and smug- 
gled through the Turkish customs between two sides 
of bacon, the pig being a loathsome animal which the 


Mussulmans hold in abomination, and contact with 


73 


tebbbhtbrtbtrtbhbbtted dtd 


wro 


TRAWEWS Wt NY Reasees 


which would compel them to endless ablutions. The 
infidels draw away with gestures of disgust, and stupidly 
allow the body of the holy Apostle to be borne away. 
This mosaic was made from the designs of Pietro 
Vecchia about the year 1650. In the spandrel of the 
archivolt on the right is set an antique bas-relief, — 
Hercules carrying on his shoulders the stag of Eryman- 
thus and trampling under foot the Lernean Hydra; 
and in the left spandrel (as the spectator looks at it), 
by one of those contrasts so frequent in San Marco, — 
the Angel Gabriel standing winged and booted with a 
halo around his head, leaning on his lance, forming a 
curious pendant to the son of Alcmene and Jupiter. 
In the second arch is a door not in symmetry with 
the other. It is surmounted by a window with a triple 
Gothic arch, between which are two quatrefoils, the 
whole window surrounded by a border of enamels. 
The mosaic of the tympanum, which is also on a gold 
background like all those in San Marco, represents the 
arrival of the Apostle’s body at Venice, where it is 
received on landing by the clergy and the chief men of 
the state. The vessel which has brought it and the 
willow baskets which contained it are also shown. 


This mosaic is likewise by Pietro Vecchia. 


74 


checbecbe check ob heads oh be ecbeedecbecl leche ofecoade oe eee 
SAN MARCO 


i} 


A Saint Demetrius, seated, with his sword half-drawn 
from the sheath, and his name engraved near the head, 
looking very fierce and very much in the style of the 
Lower Empire, continues the series of bassi-relievi set 
within the facade of the basilica as in a museum. 

We are now at the central gate, the great portal, the 
outer arch of which cuts the marble balustrade which 
runs above the other arches. Very properly it is the 
richest and the most ornamental. Besides the numer- 
ous pillars of antique marble which support it and prove 
its importance, three wreaths, two on the inside and 
one on the outside, bring out strongly the form of the 
arch by their projections. ‘These three garlands of 
ornaments, carved, wrought, and finished with marvel- 
lous patience, are composed of a thick spiral of foliage, 
scrolls, fowers, fruit, birds, angels, saints, small figures, 
and chimeras of all kinds. Tvhe arabesques in the 
third wreath spring from the hands of two statues 
seated one at each end of the spiral. “Ihe gates them- 
selves, with their bronze leaves studded with the faces 
of fantastic animals, are surmounted by a niche with 
open-worked, trellised, and gilded panels like those of a 
triptych or a cabinet. “The upper portion of the arch 
is filled by a Last Judgment of great size designed by 


Vi 


HLALALALLALALLEAL ASL LLL L ALS 
TRAV, BS, eDN lea 


Antonio Zanchi and reproduced in mosaic by Pietro 
Spagna. This work is of about 1680, and was restored 
in 1838 in accordance with the original design, ‘The 
Christ, which somewhat recalls the Christ of Michael 
Angelo in the Sistine Chapel, is separating the wicked 
from the good. Near Him stand His divine Mother 
and His beloved Apostle, Saint John, who appear to 
be interceding on behalf of the sinners. He leans on 
His cross, which is supported with respectful solicitude 
by an angel, while other angels sound their trumps 
loudly to awaken in their tombs the obstinate sleepers. 
It is above this portal, on the gallery which runs 
around the church, that are placed upon pedestals 
formed of antique pillars the famous horses which for a 
brief time adorned the Triumphal Arch of the Car- 
rousel, Opinions are greatly divided on the subject 
of these horses. Some maintain that they are Roman 
work of the days of Nero, brought to Constantinople 
in the fourth century ; others that they are Greek work 
from the Island of Chios, brought in the fifth century, 
by order of Theodosius, to Constantinople, where they 
served to decorate the Hippodrome; others, again, 
maintain that these horses are the work of Lysippus. 


What is quite sure is that they are antiques, and that in 


76 


che che bs ce he obs chy che che abe cbr teats cb cbe ole ab obec a ole lle ab abe 
SAN MARCO 


the year 1205 Marino Zeno, who was the Venetian 
Podestate at Constantinople, had them brought from 
the Hippodrome and sent to Venice. These horses, 
which are life-size, somewhat short-necked, with hog 
manes like the horses on the Frieze of the Parthe- 
non, rank among the finest remains of antiquity ; they 
are historical and true to life, ——a rare combination. 
Their attitudes show that they were harnessed to some 
triumphal quadriga. ‘The metal of which they are 
made is no less precious than the form. ‘They are, it 
is said, of Corinthian bronze, the greenish patina of 
which shows through the gilding, which time has worn 
away. | 

The fourth portal is arranged, so far as the lower 
part goes, like the second. The tympanum of the arch 
is filled with a mosaic representing the doge, the sena- 
tors, and patricians of Venice doing homage to the body 
of Saint Mark stretched upon a reliquary and covered 
with a brilliant blue drapery. In the corner stands a 
group of Turks, ashamed that such a treasure should 
have been smuggled away from them. ‘This mosaic, 
which is one of the most brilliant in tone, is the work 
of Leopoldo del Pozzo, from the designs of Sebastian 
Rizzi, in 1728. It is exceedingly beautiful. One of 


Hits 


dodocbdb dh ch bb bb bbb dbl beh be deck ch cheek 
TRAV IFAS WON TTA EY 


the senators in a purple dress is worthy of Titian. In 
the spandrel of the archivolt on the side of the main 
portal is a Saint George in Greco-Byzantine style, and 
in the other an angel or some unknown saint. 

The fifth portal is one of the most interesting. The 
lower part contains five small windows with a golden 
trellis of diverse designs. Above are the four symboli- 
cal animals of the Gospel writers in gilded bronze, — 
the ox, the lion, the eagle, and the angel, — as fantasti- 
cally designed as Japanese monsters, casting suspicious 
glances at each other; while a strange horseman, on a 
steed which may be Pegasus or the Pale Horse of the 
Apocalypse, rides between two golden rosettes. The 
capitals of the pillars are also in a ruder, more archaic 
and more vigorous taste than any of the others. Higher 
still, a mosaic, the work of an unknown artist of the 
twelfth century, contains a most interesting picture, a 
view of the basilica erected to receive the relics of 
Saint Mark as it existed eight hundred years ago. The 
domes, of which three only are visible, and the portals 
of the facade, are about the same as now; the horses, 
recently brought from Constantinople, are already in 
their places. The centre arch is filled with a great 
Byzantine Christ with the Greek monogram, and the 


78 


doe oe oe eo oe oe eo de cdee ede cb cb ce ele fe oe 
SAN MARCO 


others with roses, fleurons, and arabesques; the body 
of the saint, borne shoulder-high by prelates and bishops, . 
ts entering into the church dedicated to him. A crowd 
of figures, among them groups of women dressed in 
long gowns studded with enamels, dressed as one imag- 
ines the Greek empresses must have been, are pressing 
forward to see the ceremony. 

The series of contrasting bassi-relievi, the subjects 
of which I have enumerated, is closed on this side by 
a Hercules bearing the boar of Calydon and appearing 
to menace a small grotesque creature half concealed 
within a barrel. Below this bas-relief are stretched two 
rampant lions, and lower still an antique figure in high 
relief holds an amphora upside-down on its shoulder. 
This theme, no doubt suggested by chance, has been 
cleverly reproduced in other parts of the edifice. 

This row of porches forming the ground story of the 
facade, is bordered with a balustrade of white marble. 
The second story has five arches, the centre one of 
which, larger than the others, rises behind the horses 
of Lysippus; and in lieu of a mosaic is glazed and 
adorned with antique pillars. 

Six canopies, of four columns each, forming niches 


for the statues of evangelists, and topped by a pyramidal 


ia 


LEALAEALLALLLALLALALALALL ELSA 
TRAVERS (UN “RAL 


roof ending in a golden crown and vane, rise between 
these arcades, the semicircular tympanum of which is 
enclosed in and surmounted by a Gothic arch. The 
subjects of the four mosaics represent the Ascension, 
the Resurrection, Jesus calling Adam and Eve and the 
patriarchs from limbo, and Luigi Gaetano’s Descent 
from the Cross, from the design of Maffeo. Verona in 
1617. In the spandrels of the arch are placed nude 
figures of slaves, life-size, bearing on their shoulders 
urns and amphore which lean over as if the slave 
sought to pour from above into a basin the water 
drawn from the fountain. Gutters are fitted to the 
hollow amphorz, for the slaves are gargoyles. Their 
attitudes are very varied and their port is superb. In 
the ogee of the great central window above the semi- 
circular arch, stands out, on a dark blue background 
spangled with stars, the Lion of Saint Mark, gilded, 
with a halo, its wings outspread, its paw upon an open 
Gospel, upon which are inscribed the words: ‘ Pax 
tibt, Marce Evangeliste meus.’ ‘The lion has an apoca- 
lyptic and formidable look, and gazes out to sea like 
a vigilant dragon. 

Saint Mark, in human form, rises above the gable 


and seems to receive the homage of the neighbour- 


8o 


ALALPAALLALLALALALALLAL ALS 
SAN MARCO 


ing statues. The ogee of each of the five arches is 
crocketed with great volutes, flowers, rich fleurons in 
the shape of acanthus leaves, with, by way of a flower, 
an angel or a saint in adoration. On every gable end 
there is a statue, — Saint John, Saint George, Saint 
Theodore, Saint Michael, all of them with a halo. 

At each end of the balustrade there are two flag- 
staffs painted red, on which are hoisted the standards 
on Sundays and feast days. At the corner of the rail- 
ing on the campanile side is planted a head cut off, in 
red porphyry. 

The side facade, which looks upon the Piazetta and 
touches the Palace of the Doges, is worthy of exami- 
nation. If, in spite of all possible care and accuracy, my 
description may appear confused, do not blame me very 
much; it is difficult to depict very methodically so 
hybrid, composite, and contrasting an edifice as San 
Marco. From the Porta della Carta, which leads 
to the Giant Staircase in the court of the Palace of 
the Doges, the facade of the basilica is covered with 
slabs of marble, and antique Byzantine and medizyval 
bassi-relievi, birds, monsters, a net-work of ribbons, 
animals of all kinds,— lions and wild beasts chasing 


hares; children half swallowed by dragons which 


6 SI 


che chs abe oho abe abe abe abe oh abe te cbe ce che abe ce che che nto oth choad 


owe ome Gye eye wre ore 


DRAYV BAS MI NAA dee 


resemble the great serpent of Milan, and holding in 
their hands cartouches the inscriptions on which are 
half effaced. 

Among the curiosities on this fagade are two porphyry 
figures twice repeated, exactly alike. “hey represent 
warriors in very much the costume of Crusaders enter- 
ing Constantinople, and they are carved in a most 
primitive and barbarous fashion like the rudest of 
Gothic bassi-relievi. “These porphyry men, their hands 
on the hilts of their swords, appear to be resolved on 
some violent deed. ‘The general opinion is that they 
are Harmodeus and Aristogiton preparing to strike 
down the tyrant Hipparchus. ‘The learned Cavaliere 
Mustoxidi believes they represent the four brothers 
Anemuria, who conspired against Alexander Comnenus, 
the Emperor of the East; but they may be simply the 
four sons of Aymon,—-that is my opinion. Others, 
again, maintain that these four porphyry men are two 
pairs of Saracen robbers, who, having planned to carry 
off the treasure of Saint Mark, poisoned each other in 
order to secure the larger share. 

It is on this side that are planted separately two huge 
pillars taken from the church of San Saba at St. Jean 


d’Acre. ‘They are covered all over with curious orna- 


82 


ments and inscriptions in Cufic characters, almost 
effaced, the meaning of which has not been fully made 
out. Somewhat farther, at the corner of the basilica, 1s a 
huge block of porphyry in the shape of a broken shaft, 
with a pedestal and capital of white marble. ° It was a 
sort of pillory on which bankrupts were formerly ex- 
posed. ‘The custom has fallen into desuetude, but it 
is rare to see any one sit there, and Venetians, who 
are so ready to drop down on the nearest pedestal or 
staircase, appear to avoid it. 

A bronze gate leading to the Baptistery Chapel fills 
the first porch. Over it is a columned window with 
ogee and quatrefoils. Two shields of enamels in bril- 
liant colours, one bearing a cross, and a traceried rose 
window, complete the decoration of the tympanum. 
A mosaic representing Saint Vitus in a niche, and an 
Evangelist holding a book and a pen, are seen in the 
two lower parts of the arch. A small pediment in the 
Renaissance taste, and slabs of white marble cut by a 
green cross fill the second porch. A bench of red 
Verona brocatello forms at the foot of this sort of 
miniature facade a comfortable seat for the idler or the 
dreamer, who, with his feet in the sunshine and his 
head in the shade, after the fashion of Zafari, is think- 


83 


a 


betetbebbetetetettttttttts 
SE RA Vi Eee aN o> Te Aree 


ing of nothing or of everything while looking at San- 
sovino’s Loggetta at the foot of the Campanile, or at 
the blue sea and the island of San Giorgio at the end 
of the facade. 

On the capitals of verd antique which support this 
arch crouch two apocalyptic monsters, strange shapes 
seen by Saint John in his hallucinations in the Isle of 
Patmos. The one, which has a hooked beak like an 
eagle, holds a small heifer with its legs drawn up under 
itself; the other, which is half lion and half griffin, has 
driven its claws into the body of a child thrown cross- 
wise; one of the claws seems to be putting out the 
victim’s eye. The angle is formed by a detached, 
squat pillar which bears a shaft of five smaller pillars 
on its broad capital. In the vaulting of this open 
. portal, covered with a veneer of various marbles, there 
is a mosaic representing an eagle holding a book in its 
talons. 

The second story shows on the gable arches two 
finely posed statues of the cardinal virtues: Strength 
caressing a tame lion, which’ fawns like a joyous dog, 
and Fortitude holding a sword with the air of a Brada- 
mante. ‘The sacristan has christened one of these 
Venice, and the other Queen of Sheba. 


84. 


cde oso ob doe deo aedec eco oe che check kok 
SAN MARCO 


Incrustations in malachite, various enamels, and two 
small angels in mosaic.holding out the cloth which 
preserved the impression of the Divine Face; a great, 
barbaric Madonna presenting her Son to be worshipped 
by the faithful, flanked by two lamps which are lighted 
every evening; a bas-relief of peacocks displaying their 
tails, which comes perhaps from some old temple of 
Juno; a Saint Christopher bearing his burden ; capitals 
of basket-work most charmingly capricious, — these 
are the riches which this side of the Basilica offers to 
the stroller on the Piazetta. 

The other lateral facade looks upon a small square 
which is the continuation of the Piazza. At the en- 
trance crouch two lions in red marble, cousins-german to 
those in the Alhambra by the quaint fancifulness of 
their shapes and the grotesque ferocity of their faces and 
their manes. They are polished to a wonderful degree, 
for from time immemorial the little ragamuffins of 
Venice have spent their days in climbing on top of 
them and using them as vaulting horses. At the back 
rises the palace of the Patriarch of Venice, of modern 
construction, which would bea pretty dull building were 
it not thrown into the shadow by San Marco; and on 


the side, the old facade of the church of San Basso. 
85 


TORVA VARNEeS* AN “FMA 


be che obs obs of abs obs abe os ole cb cb ele ole abs ols ol obs obs che ofr ofp oh ok 


This facade is somewhat less ornamented than the 
other. It is overlaid with discs, mosaics, enamels, 
ornaments, arabesques, of all times and of all countries, 
birds, peacocks, curiously shaped eagles like the alerions 
and martlets of heraldry. ‘The lion of Saint Mark also 
plays its part in the symbolical menagerie. The tym- 
pana of the porches are filled either with small windows 
surrounded by palms and arabesques, or with incrus~ 
tations of antique or Byzantine fragments. In the 
medallions are carved men and animals fighting. A 
closer examination would no doubt reveal the bull of 
Mithra struck in the neck by the priest, and thus no 
religion would be wanting in this artlessly pantheistic 
temple. Surely this must be Ceres seeking her daughter, 
a branch of burning pitch pine in each hand by way of 
a torch, and riding on a car drawn by two bronze 
dragons. It might be a Hindoo idol, so archaic is the 
style and so much does it recall the carvings of Per- 
sepolis. It is a curious pendant to a Sacrifice of 
Abraham in bas-relief which must be ascribed to the 
earliest period of Christian art. 

Another bas-relief composed of two lines of sheep, 
six on either hand, looking at a throne and separated by 


two palm branches, interested me greatly, for I should 


86 


have liked to know its meaning. In vain I endeav- 
oured to make out the inscription in Gothic or abbre- 
viated Greek letters which no doubt states the subject. 
It may be that the sheep are meant for cows; in that 
case the bas-relief would represent Pharaoh’s dream. 
An antique fragment set in the wall somewhat farther 
away represents an adept being initiated into the Eleu-~ 
sinian mysteries, and placing a crown upon a mystic 
palm. This does not prevent Saint George from 
showing on the archivolt on a throne in the Greek 
style, and the four Evangelists, Saint Mark, Saint John, 
Saint Luke, and Saint Matthew, marching along the 
tympanum, the gables, and the vaulting, either alone or 
accompanied by their symbolical animals. 

The portal which opens into that arm of the cross 
formed by the Basilica, is surrounded by a broad, double 
moulding, carved and open-worked, presenting a de- 
lightful bloom of scrolls and foliage and angels. A 
lovely Virgin forms the keystone. Above the door 
rises a horseshoe arch like those of the Mosque at 
Cordova, an Arab fancy seasonably corrected by a very 
Christian and pretty Nativity, most devotional in feel- 
ing. Beyond that I need mention only a Saint Chris- 


topher, apostles, and saints in checkered frames of 


87 


theeteeetebetebbbeebe dst 
TRAVBHS WN AMRAILY 


white and red marble, and a pretty Virgin, seen full 
face, her hands bent as if in blessing, placed between 
two angels kneeling in worship. 

I have spoken of a porphyry head placed on the bal- 
ustrade above the short shaft on which bankrupts were 
exposed. According to a popular tale, the accuracy of 
which I do not warrant, Count Carmagnola, after great 
services done to the Republic, having sought to seize 
the power for himself, the Council of Ten, conciliating 
justice and gratitude, had him beheaded, and then 
erected to his memory a monument which consists of 
this pedestal and porphyry head, a strange statue from 
which the body is wanting, and the head of which on 
the balustrade seems to be exposed as a leader of male- 
factors is exposed in a cage; but the pillory is San 
Marco, the sacred place, the Capitol and palladium of 
Venice. When the hero was tortured to compel him to 
make the confession needed, according to the ideas of 
the time, to insure his condemnation, his arms, which had 
valiantly fought for the state, were spared, and his feet 
were placed in the fire; a strange mingling of deference 
and cruelty which is well in harmony with the legend. 

The basilica of San Marco is entered, like a temple 


of antiquity, by an atrium, which anywhere else would 


88 


tetbetettttdtetttbtttectttts 
SAN MARCO 


be a church. The three red marble slabs in the pave- 
ment mark the spot where the Emperor Frederick Bar- 
-barossa knelt to the proud Pope Alexander III, saying, 
“© Non tibi, sed Petro,’ to which the Pope replied, “Et 
Petro et mihi.’ How many feet, since the twenty-third 
day of July, 1177, have worn away the imprint of the 
knees of the great Emperor, who now rests within the 
cavern of Kaiserslautern waiting until the crows cease 
to fly over the mountain. Three bronze doors, in- 
crusted, inlaid, and enamelled with silver, covered with 
figures and ornaments, and opening into the nave, 
come, it is said, from Saint Sophia’s at Constantinople. 
One of them is signed Leon de Molina. At the end of 
the vestibule on the right is seen through a grating the 
Zeno Chapel with its bronze retable and tomb. The 
statue of the Virgin, placed between Saint John the 
Baptist and Saint Peter, is called the Madonna della 
Scarpe (the Madonna of the Shoe), from the golden shoe 
on her foot worn away by the kisses of the faithful. 
This metallic decoration has a curiously severe aspect. 
The vaulting of the atrium represents, in mosaic, Old 
Testament subjects: first, for all religious history 
begins with a cosmogony, the Seven Days of the 


Creation as told in Genesis, placed in concentric com- 


89 


thbbbteedbbthbbbbtdbb tt 


DRAW EIS ML NG Arey 


partments. The archaic barbarity of the style has a 
wild and primitive mysteriousness which suits the 
sacred subjects. The stiff drawing is as absolute as 
dogma, and appears to be rather the hieroglyph of a 
mystery than a reproduction of nature. ‘This is what 
gives to these rough Gothic images a power and a 
commanding look which more perfect works _ lack. 
The blue, starry globes, the blue and silver discs 
which represent the firmament, the sun, and the 
moon, the many lines which figure the separation 
between water and land, and that curious personage 
with impossible gestures, whose right hand creates 
animals and trees of impossible shape and who bends 
like a mesmeriser over the first man asleep, the min- 
gling of angular lines and of brilliant tones strike the 
eye and the mind like an inextricable arabesque and 
a deep symbolism. The verses of Scripture traced in 
antique characters, complicated by abbreviations and 
double letters, add tothe hieroglyph a genetic aspect. 
It is, indeed, a world arising out of chaos. The Tree 
of the knowledge of good and evil, the Temptation, 
the Fall, the Expulsion from Paradise, complete the 
cosmogonic and primitive cycle, the quasi divine period 


of humanity. 


go 


tettteeteetetteteteotttttttes 
SA Ne A.R.C:O 


Farther on, Cain slays Abel after having seen his 
own sacrifice rejected by the Lord; Adam and Eve 
cultivate the ground by the sweat of their brow; the 


bP) 


legend “Increase and multiply” is artlessly translated 
by a pair of lovers. “The four columns engaged against 
the wall above these mosaics are merely ornamental, for 
they sustain nothing, and are of Oriental white and black 
marble, exceedingly rare. They were brought from 
Jerusalem, and tradition holds that they formed part of 
Solomon’s Temple. Assuredly Hiram, the architect, 
would not think them out of place in San Marco. 
In the next arch Noah, in accordance with the com- 
mandment of the Lord and in anticipation of the flood, 
is seen building the Ark, into which are entering two 
by two all the animals in creation,—an admirable 
subject for a simple-minded mosaic worker of the 
fifteenth century. Most curious it is to see outspread 
upon the golden background the fantastic zodlogy 
which smacks of heraldry, arabesques, and the signs 
of travelling menageries. The Flood is most formi- 
dable and sombre indeed; it is entirely different from 
the much bepraised taste of Poussin. “The foam of the 
waves mingles quaintly with the fast falling rain; 


the raven and the dove coming forth from the Ark, the 


GI 


ALALHEALLELELPAELALL LL LAL ELSA 
TRAY Bae 5 il NIG aom 


sacrifice of thanksgiving, — nothing is wanting. That 
closes the antediluvian cycle. Verses of Scripture 
which wind in and out everywhere like the inscriptions 
in the Alhambra and which form part of the orna- 
mentation, explain each phase of the vanished world. 
The idea is ever side by side with the image; the 
Word soars everywhere over its plastic representation. 

The story, interrupted by the entrance porch, which 
is adorned with mosaics, the Virgin with archangels 
and prophets, is continued under the other arches. 
Noah plants the vine and gets drunk; Japhet, Shem, 
and Ham, blackened by the paternal curse, go forth, 
each to found a race of humankind; the Tower of 
Babel raises to the heavens the artless anachronism 
of its Byzantine architecture, and calls down on itself 
the attention of God, annoyed at being so closely ap- 
proached; the confusion of tongues compels the work- 
men to give up their work; the human race, which 
until then was single and spoke the same language, is 
now about to begin its long pilgrimage through the 
unknown world in order to recover its title deeds and 
to reconstitute itself. 

The next arches, placed, the first in the vestibule, 


the others in the gallery opposite the Hall of Lions, 
Qg2 


ttpttbttetttttetettttttte 
SAN MARCO 


contain the story of the Patriarch Abraham in detail, 
that of Joseph and Moses, with a company of prophets, 
priests, evangelists, — Isaiah, Jeremiah, Elias, Samuel, 
Habbakuk, Saint Alipius, Saint Simeon, and innumer- 
able others who are in groups or lines in the arches, in 
the pendentives, in the keystones, wherever can be 
placed a figure which cares neither for comfort nor 
anatomy, and does not mind breaking its arm or leg 
in order to adorn an out-of-the-way angle. 

All these biblical legends, full of artless details of 
curious Oriental fashions, produce a superb and strange 
effect on the golden background, the brilliancy of which 
darkens them and brings them out. ‘These old mosaics, 
probably the work of Greek artists brought from Con- 
stantinople, are much more agreeable to me than more 
modern mosaics which attempt to be pictures; for in- 
stance, the one which covers the gallery wall on the 
San Basso side, below the story of Abraham, and which 
represents the Judgment of Solomon from cartoons by 
Salviati. Mosaic, like painting on glass, should not 
seek to imitate nature. Cleanly drawn, typical forms, 
plain colours, broad local tones, golden backgrounds, 
entirely removed from the idea of a painting, — these 


are suitable to it. A mosaic is opaque stained glass, 


93 


bhbbbbbbebetbebbbbad bet 
TRA'VAVES ST NOOR EAE Y 


just as stained glass is transparent mosaic. ‘The 
palette of the master mosaic-worker is composed of 
stones, that of the stained-glass painter of gems; neither 
the one nor the other should seek absolute truth. 

At the end of a gallery, in the tympanum of a door, 
I greatly admired a Madonna seated on a throne be- 
tween Saint Peter and Saint John, presenting the Child 
Jesus to the faithful. It is one of the finest in San 
Marco. The head, with its great fixed eyes which pene- 
trate you without looking at you, is imperial and impe- 
rious in its gentleness. One could swear that Helena 
or Irene embroidered in Byzantium the cushion on which 
she rests. The Mother of God, as the Greek mono- 
gram calls her, and the Queen of Heaven could not be 
represented in more majestic fashion. Certain crudities 
of drawing, which might be considered hieratic, impart to 
this figure the look of an idol, or an ezkon, to make use 
of the expression of the Greek Christians, which seems 
to me indispensable for devotional subjects. Under the 
gallery there are three tombs, one of which, noticeable 
for its antiquity, represents Jesus Christ and the Twelve 
Apostles ranged in a row above a line of thuriferz. 

To close the description of the interior of Saint 


Mark, let us enter the Baptistery, which communicates 


94 


SA NeUM A.R.C © 


with the cathedral by a door. ‘The altar is formed of 
a stone brought from Mount Tabor in 1126 by Doge 
Domenico Michiele. What the Spaniards call the 
retable, the Italians /a pala, and the French the altar- 
piece, is here a Baptism of Jesus Christ by Saint 
John, placed between two angels carved in bas-relief. 
Saint Theodore and Saint George on horseback are 
placed on either side, and above there is a great mosaic 
of the Crucifixion, with the Holy Women, against a 
background of gold of architectural design. The mo- 
saic in the vaulting represents Jesus Christ in glory, 
surrounded by a great circle of heads and wings ar- 
ranged concentrically. It gleams, sparkles, shimmers, 
flames with a strange impression of whirling ; arch- 
angels, thrones, powers, virtues, principalities, cherubs, 
and seraphs mingle their oval faces and cross their 
purple wings so as to form an immense rose, like a 
Turkish carpet. At the feet of the Almighty writhes 
Satan in chains, and conquered Death grovels before 
the triumphant Christ. 

The next arch, most singular in aspect, exhibits the 
Twelve Apostles each baptising Gentiles of a different 
country. The catechumens are, according to the 


ancient custom, plunged in a basin up to the armpits, 


95 


bebbbbbbebetoetototbtdtdd 
TR AWE SEeS fe N Vela Ast ey 


and the lack of perspective gives them constrained atti- 
tudes and piteous looks which make the baptism re- 
semble a torture. The apostles, with exaggerated eyes 
and harsh, fierce features, look like executioners and 
torturers. Four Fathers of the Church, Saint Jerome, 
Saint Gregory, Saint Augustine, and Saint Ambrose, are 
placed in the pendentives. The black crosses with 
which their dalmatics are covered, have a sinister and 
funereal look. This is, indeed, the general character 
of the baptistery. The mosaics are of the greatest 
antiquity. “They are the oldest in the church, are fero- 
ciously barbarous, and tell of an implacable and savage 
Christianity. 

In the arch of the vaulting there is a great medallion 
representing Christ in a most terrible aspect ; no longer 
the well-known, gentle, fair-haired Christ, the young, 
blue-eyed Nazarene, but a severe and dread Christ, with 
a long, gray, wavy beard like that of God the Father, 
for the Father and the Son are coeternal. Eternal 
wrinkles mark His brow, and His mouth is contracted, 
ready to launch anathemas., He seems to despair of 
the salvation of the world He has saved, or to repent 
of His sacrifice. Siva, the god of destruction, could 


not have a more sombre and threatening look in the 


g6 


kkebebtbbteeettetttdsettttes 


SAAT ING Ay RCo © 
subterranean pagoda at Ellora. Around this avenging 
Christ are grouped the prophets who foretold His 
coming. 

On the walls is told the story of Saint John the 
Baptist : the angel announcing to Zacharias the birth 
of the Precursor; his life in the desert, clad in the 
rough skins of beasts; the baptism of Christ in the 
Jordan, a mosaic more Hindoo than Byzantine, and 
more Caribbean than Hindoo in character, so eccentric 
is the appearance of the thin body and the waters 
figured by blue and white stripes; Herodias dancing 
before Herod; the Beheading of the Baptist and the 
bringing in of the head upon a silver dish, which was a 
favorite subject of Juan Valdes. In these latter mosa- 
ics Herodias, wearing a long dalmatic edged with vair, 
recalls the dissolute empresses of Constantinople, the 
great courtesans of the Lower Empire, — Theodora, 
for instance, luxurious, lascivious, and cruel. A singu- 
lar symmetry marks the banquet scene. While Hero- 
dias brings in the head on one side, a servant man 
on the other brings in a pheasant on a dish. Food and 
murder thus mingled have an artlessly horrible effect. 
The baptismal font is formed of a basin of marble with 


a bronze cover, the dasst-relievi on which, modelled in 


7 97 


che obs abe abs oe obs able obs ole abs be brcle bess abe obs be cba crab abe abe of 


TLR AV ETE SS) SUN, ST eee 
1545. by Desiderio of Florence and Tiziano of Padua, 


both pupils of Sansovino, recall the motive of the story 
of Saint John. ‘The statue of the saint, also in bronze, 
is by Francesco Segala, and forms an admirable crown 
to the work. Against the wall is the tomb of Doge 
Andrea Dandolo. 

Let us now enter the Basilica. Above the door is a 
Saint Mark in Pontifical vestments, from a cartoon of 
Titian’s by the Zuccatto brothers, which suggested to 
George Sand the subject of a charming novel, ‘The 
Master Mosaic Workers.” The brilliancy of the 
mosaic explains why jealous rivals accused the clever 
artists of having employed paint instead of making 
use of ordinary means. On the inner impost stands 
Christ between His Mother and Saint John the Bap- 
tist; this mosaic is in good Lower Empire style, 
imposing and severe. 

Nothing can be compared to San Marco in Venice, 
neither Cologne nor Seville, nor even Cordova with its 
mosque. ‘The effect is surprising and magical. ‘The 
first impression one has is of entering a golden cavern 
studded with gems, splendid and sombre, sparkling and 
mysterious ; one wonders whether it is within a build- 


ing or an immense jewelled casket that one stands, for 


98 


Skebeteeetetestette tet tee 


Cre ore ee WTO fe OFS CTO 


SAN MARCO 


all ideas of architecture are upset. he cupolas, the 
vaulting, the architraves, the walls, are covered with 
small tubes of gilded crystal of unchanging brilliancy, 
made at Murano, on which the light gleams as on the 
scales of a fish, and which form a background for the 
inexhaustible fancy of the mosaic workers. Where the 
golden background stops at the top of the pillars, begins 
a plating of the most precious and varied marbles. 
From the vaulting hangs a great lamp in the shape of a 
four-armed cross with ffeurs de lys suspended from a 
golden ball of filigree work, of marvellous effect when 
the lights are lighted. Six pillars of wavy alabaster, 
with gilded bronze capitals in the most fantastic Corin- 
thian style, support elegant arches above which a gallery 
runs almost entirely around the church. The cupola 
forms, with the Paraclete as an axle, with palms for. 
spokes, and the Twelve Apostles for the circumference, 
a vast wheel of mosaics. 

In the pendentives tall, serious-looking, black-winged 
angels stand out against a background illumined by 
gleams of tawny light. The central dome, which 
rises at the intersection of the arms of the Greek 
cross which forms the plan of the Basilica, presents 


within its vast cupola Jesus Christ seated upon a rain- 


ye 


ALALEALLLALLAALALE LALA L LAS 
TR AYV ES 0 Nae a ee 


bow in the centre of a starry circle supported by two 
pairs of seraphim. Below him the Divine Mother, 
standing between two angels, worships her Son in 
glory; and the Apostles, each supported by a quaint 
tree, which represents the Garden of Olives, form the 
celestial court of their Master. The theological and 
cardinal Virtues are between the columns of the win- 
dows of the smaller dome which lights the vaulting. 
The Four Evangelists, seated under canopies in the 
shape of castles, are writing their precious books at the 
base of the pendentives, the extreme point of which is 
filled with emblematic figures pouring from urns in- 
clined upon their shoulders the four rivers of Paradise, 
— Pison, Gihon, Tigris, and Euphrates. 

In the next cupola, the centre of which has in a 
medallion the Mother of God, the four symbolical ani- 
mals of the Evangelists, in chimerical and astounding 
attitudes, free for once from the guardianship of their 
masters, guard the sacred manuscripts with a wealth of 
teeth, claws, and big eyes which would shame the drag- 
ons of the Hesperides. At the end of the apse, which 
shows dimly behind the high altar, is seen the Re- 
deemer, of gigantic and disproportionate size, made so 


intentionally, according to the Byzantine custom, to 


IO0O 


BLEDEL ALLELLEALAALLL ALLELE ALS 
SAN MARCO 


mark the distance between the Divine Person and the 
weak creature. If that Christ were to rise, he would, 
like the Olympian Jupiter, break through the roof of 
the temple. 

The atrium of the Basilica tells the Old Testament 
story ; the interior tells that of the New Testament in 
full, with the Apocalypse by way of epilogue. The 
Basilica of San Marco is a great golden Bible, illus- 
trated, illuminated, adorned, a missal of the Middle Ages 
on a great scale. For eight centuries past the city has 
been reading that monument as if it were a book of 
pictures, and has never wearied of its pious adoration. 
By the image runs the text. Everywhere ascend, 
descend, and meander legends in Greek, in Latin, 
Leonine verse, sentences, names, maxims, specimens 
of the caligraphy of every country and every age. 
Everywhere the black letter marks the golden page 
amid the variety of the mosaics. It is even more 
the Temple of the Word than the church of Saint 
Mark; an intellectual temple which, careless of all the 
orders of architecture, was built with verses of the old 
and the new faith, and ornamented by the exposition 
of the doctrine. I wish I could convey the dazzling 


and bewildering impression caused by that world of 


IOI 


ch oe eo ae be be eae cbe cece cee baobab abc cl of ce 


ome wre eTe ww qe re OFS ome CES GO em 


TRAV GES. TN wie Am 


angels, apostles, evangelists, prophets, doctors, figures 
of all kinds, which people the cupolas, the vaulting, the 
pediments, the arches, the pillars, the pendentives, — 
every little bit of wall. Here the genealogical tree of 
the Virgin spreads out its thick branches which have 
for fruits kings and holy personages, filling a vast panel 
with its curious bloom; there shines a Paradise, with 
its glory, its legions of angels and of the blessed. ‘This 
chapel contains the story of the Virgin; that vaulting 
contains the drama of the Passion, from the kiss of 
Judas to the appearance of the Holy Women, not for- 
getting the Agony in the Garden of Olives and Cal- 
vary. All those who have testified to Jesus, either by 
prophecy, preaching, or martyrdom, have been admitted 
to this great Christian Pantheon. Here is Saint Peter 
crucified head down, Saint Paul beheaded, Saint Thomas 
in the presence of the Indian king Gondoforo, Saint 
Andrew suffering martyrdom; not a single servant of 
Christ is forgotten, not even Saint Bacchus. Greek 
saints whom we Latins know but little of swell this 
great multitude: Saints Phocas, Dimitri, Procopius, 
Hermagoras, Euphemia, ‘Dorothea, Erasma, Thekla, 
all the lovely exotic flowers of the Greek calendar, 


which may well be painted in accordance with the 


LO? 


SAN MARCO 


9? 


recipes of the “ Manual of Painting ”’ of the monk of 
Aghia-Labre, bloom on trees of gold and branches of 
gems. 

At certain hours of the day, when the darkness 
deepens and the sun sheds but a faint light under the 
vaulting, the poet and the seer behold strange effects. 
Tawny gleams suddenly flash from the golden back- 
ground, the small crystal tubes sparkle in spots like the 
sea in the sunshine, the contours of the figures tremble 
in the glimmering network, the silhouettes, clearly 
marked just now, become fainter, and the stiff folds of 
the dalmatics seem to soften and wave; a mysterious 
life revives the motionless figures; the staring eyes live, 
the arms, with their Egyptian gestures, move; the frozen 
feet begin to walk; the cherubs display their eight 
wings ; the angels exhibit their long azure and purple 
plumes nailed to the wall by the implacable mosaic 
worker; the genealogical tree shakes its leaves of green 
marble; the lion of Saint Mark stretches itself, yawns, 
and licks its armed paws; the eagle sharpens its beak 
and ruffles its feathers; the ox turns on its litter and 
chews the cud; the martyrs rise from their gridirons or 
descend from their crosses; the prophets converse 


with the Evangelists, the doctors talk to the young 


103 


tittretebbebeetttttetttttott tes 
WRAY Tee Ss) SN ae Sie 


saints, who smile with porphyry lips ; the characters in 
the mosaics become processions of phantoms which 
ascend and descend along the walls, move along the 
galleries, and pass before you in the waving gold of 
their glory. You are dazzled, bewildered; you are 
under the spell of a hallucination. The real meaning 
of the cathedral, its deep, mysterious, solemn meaning 
seems then to become plain. It appears to be the 
temple of a Christianity anterior to Christ, a church 
built before religion was. The centuries are lost in 
infinite perspective. Is not the Trinity a trimourta ? 
Is it Horus or Krishna whom the Virgin holds in 
her lap? Is it Isis or Parvati? Does that figure on 
the cross suffer the passion of Jesus or the trials of 
Vishnu? Are we in Egypt or in India? — in a temple 
of Karnak or ina pagoda of Juggernath? Are these 
figures in constrained attitudes very different from the 
processions of coloured hieroglyphs which twist and 
turn around the pylons and sink in the passages? 
When the eye descends from the vaulting to the 
ground, it sees on the left a small chapel dedicated to 
a miraculous Christ, which, having been struck by a 
profane hand, shed blood. ‘The dome, supported by 


columns of excessive rarity, all of which are of black 


1O4 


bebbbbtt td teeetttttttttts 
SeNeN AR OC @ 


and white porphyry, is closed by a ball formed of the 
largest agate in the world. 

At the back extends the choir with its balustrade, its 
porphyry columns, its row of statues carved by the 
Massegne brothers, and its great metal cross by Jacopo 
Benato. It has two pulpits in coloured marble, and 
an altar which shows under a dais between four 
columns of green marble carved like Chinese ivory by 
patient hands, which have inscribed upon it the whole 
story of the Old Testament in small figures a few 
inches in height. ‘The altar-piece, called the pala d’oro, 
is placed within a case, painted in compartments in the 
style of the Lower Empire. The pala itself is a daz- 
zling mass of enamels, cameos, niello, pearls, garnets, 
sapphires, gold and silver work, and painting in gems, 
representing scenes of the life of Saint Mark, sur- 
rounded by angels, apostles, and prophets. The pala 
was made in Constantinople in 976 (1105) and re- 
arranged in 1342 by Giambi Bonsegna. The second 
or cryptic altar behind the high altar is remarkable only 
for its four columns of alabaster, two of which are 
extraordinarily transparent. Near the altar is a won- 
derful bronze door in which Sansovino set by the side 


of his own the portraits of his great friends, Titian, 


105 


BEALE ALE ALLS AALALALS 


ewe OTe oye oT eee we 


ROA Vil Gh AN ‘Valerie 


Palma, and Aretino. ‘The door leads to a sacristy on 
the vaulting of which blazes a wondrous mosaic in 
arabesques, executed by Marco Rizzo and Francesco 
Zaccato from drawings by Titian. Nothing richer, 
more elegant, or more beautiful can be imagined. 

It would take more space than | have at my disposal 
to describe in detail the chapels of Saint Clement, of 
the Madonna dei Mascoli, in which there is a magnifi- 
cent retable by Nicolo Pisano, and the treasures of art 
met with at every step: now an alabaster Madonna 
with her bambino, exquisitely suave, now a bas-relief 
charmingly wrought, in which the peacocks’ tails form 
a halo, or a Turkish arch embroidered with Arab lace- 
work and checker-work of enamelled arabesques; then 
a pair of bronze candelabra, chased in a way to dis- 
courage Benvenuto Cellini, — some object of art either 
curious or venerable. 

The mosaic pavement, which waves like the sea in 
consequence of the age and the settling of the piles, 
presents the most astounding medley of arabesques, 
scrolls, fleurons, lozenges, and interlacing checker-work, 
storks, griffins, open-mouthed, winged, and taloned 
chimeras, ramping and climbing like the monsters of 


heraldry. One is fairly terrified and confounded by 


106 


dasha bt LELDLAEAL SL ALALALE LLY 
SAN MARCO 


the creative power displayed by men in this ornamental 
fancifulness; it is a world as varied, as numerous, as 
swarming as the other, but which draws its forms from 
itself alone. 

How much time, care, patience, and genius, how 
much cost must have been involved for eight centuries 
in consummating this immense mass of riches and 
masterpieces! How many golden sequins have been 
melted into the glass of the mosaics! How many 
antique temples and mosques have yielded up their 
pillars to support these capitals! How many quarries 
have been exhausted to provide the slabs for the pil- 
lars and the overlayings of Verona brocatelle, of portor, 
of lumachella, of red alabaster, of cyphisus, of veined 
granite, of mosaic granite, of verd antique, of red 
porphyry, of black and white porphyry, of serpentine 
of jasper! What armies of artists, following each 
other from generation to generation, have drawn, 
chased, and carved in this cathedral! Even leaving 
out the unknown, the humble workmen of the Middle 
Ages, lost in the night of time, who buried themselves 
in their work, what a long line of names might be 
drawn up worthy of being inscribed on the golden book 


of art! Among the painters who furnished cartoons 


107 


BEDE A ALA LS ASA Se eee teeter 
TRAWE Gs (iN Wide 


for the mosaics, — for there is not a single painting in 
the sanctuary, are numbered ‘Titian, Tintoretto, 
Palma, Padovanino, Salviatino, Aliense, Pilotti, Sebas- 
tian Rizzi, Tizianello; among the master mosaic- 
workers, at the head of whom must be placed old 
Petrus (author of the colossal Christ at the back of 
the church), are the brothers Zuccati, Bozza, Vincenzo 
Bianchini, Luigi Gaetano, Michele Zambono, Giacomo 
Passerini; among the sculptors, all men of prodigious 
talent, whom one is surprised to find are not better 
known, Pietro Lombardi, Campanetti, Zuanne Alber- 
ghetti, Paolo Savi, the brothers della Massegne, Jacopo 
Benato, Sansovino, Pietro Zuana, delle Campania, 
Lorenzo Breghno, and many others, any one of whom 
would suffice to make an epoch illustrious. 

In front of the church rise the three standards, sup- 
ported by the bronze pedestals of Alessandro Leopardi 
which represent marine deities, and chimeras exquisite 
in workmanship and polish. The three standards were 
formerly those of Cyprus, Candia, and Moro, the 
three maritime possessions of Venice; now on Sundays 
the black and yellow banner of Austria alone waves in 


the breeze which comes from Greece and the Orient. 


108 


bhbebetbebbehebbbbke bed 
EEA le L Ny LL ALY 


Poebetbtttetbtttebbttttt bet 


ere wre vFe 


eee On ht RY IDOGES 


|e AHE Palace of the Doges, in its present form, 

dates from the time of Marino Faliero, and 

has replaced an older building founded 
about 814 under Angelo Participazio and continued by 
different doges. Marino Faliero it was who caused 
to be built in 1355 the existing facades on the Molo 
and the Piazzetta. The building proved unlucky to 
both the Doge and the architect: the former was be- 
headed, the latter hanged. 

The strange edifice, which was at once a palace, a 
Senate house, a Court house, and a prison under the 
government of the Republic, is entered by an exquisite 
door on the San Marco corner between the pillars of 
Saint Jean d’Acre and the enormous squat column 
which bears up the whole weight of the mighty white 
and rose marble wall that imparts such striking origi- 
nality to the Palace of the Doges. This door, called 
della Carta, is ina charming architectural style, orna- 


mented with slender pillars, trefoils, and statues, and, 


109 


de ded obs b deck bob chard edeck oh hoch 


Ce CTO WHO Oe wie Ue ey 


TRAVELS UN irae 


of course, the inevitable winged lion and Saint Mark. 
It leads through a vaulted passage into the great inner 
court. This peculiar placing of the entrance, outside, 
as it were, the building to which it leads, has the 
advantage of not interfering in any way with the unity 
of the facade, which is broken by no projection save 
that of the monumental windows. 

Above the huge, heavy column of which I have 
spoken there is a fierce looking bas-relief representing 
the Judgment of Solomon. ‘The medizval costumes 
and a certain savageness in the execution make it diffi- 
cult to recognise the subject. On the other side, 
towards the sea, are the figures of Adam and Eve, and 
on the angle cut by the Ponte della Paglia, the Sin of 
Noah. The old man’s arm, carved with fine Gothic 
dryness, shows every muscle and every vein. 

On the Piazzetta, on the second story, two columns 
of red marble mark the place where were proclaimed 
sentences of death, a custom which still persists. “The 
thirteenth capital of the lower gallery, counting from 
Saint Mark, is also highly praised. It contains in eight 
compartments as many ages,of human life very cleverly 
rendered. For the matter of that, all the capitals are 


_in exquisite taste and wonderfully varied; there are no 


IIO 


THE PALACE OF a Boots 


two alike. They contain monsters, angels, children, 
fantastic animals, biblical or historical subjects, mingled 
with scrolls, acanthus leaves, fruits, and flowers. Sev- 
eral bear half-effaced inscriptions in Gothic characters. 
There are seventeen arches on the Molo and eighteen 
on the Piazzetta. | 
The Porta della Carta leads to the Giants’ Staircase, 
which is in no wise gigantic in itself its name being 
due to two colossi some twelve feet in height, by 
Sansovino, representing Neptune and Mars, placed on 
pedestals at the top of the stairs. It leads from the 
court to the second gallery, which runs within as well 
as without the palace, and it was built under the rule 
of Doge Agostino Barberigo by Antonio Rizzi. It is 
in white marble, and decorated by Domenico and Ber- 
nardino of Mantua with arabesques and trophies in 
.very low relief, but so perfect as to drive to despair all 
decorators, jewellers, and niello workers in the world. 
It ceases to be architecture; it is goldsmith’s work 
such as Benvenuto Cellini and Vechte alone could pro- 
duce. Every bit of the open-worked balustrade is a 
marvel of invention; the arms and the helmets of each 
bas-relief, all dissimilar, exhibit the rarest fancifulness 


and are in the purest style; the very steps themselves 


IIIf 


LLELAAALELLALAALALALAALALAL 
TR ANE LScil NIA 


are inlaid with exquisite ornaments. And yet who 
knows about Domenico and Bernardino of Mantua? 
Human memory, already overladen with hundreds of 
illustrious names, refuses to remember more, and con- 
signs to oblivion some which deserve to be glorious. 

At the foot of the stairs are placed, where is usually 
found the railhead, two baskets of fruit worn by the 
hands of people who ascend. ‘The statues of Neptune 
and Mars, in spite of their great size and the exagger- 
ated prominence of the muscles, are somewhat weak, 
considered zsthetically, but set off by the architecture, 
they have a proud and majestic look. On the plinth 
is the artist’s name, who, I consider, did far better 
work in his statuettes of the Apostles and in the 
door of the sacristy of San Marco. 

On turning around at the top of the stairs, one sees 
the inner side of Bartolommeo’s facade covered with 
volutes, slender columns, and statues, with vestiges of 
blue colouring starred with gold in the pediments of the 
arches. Among these statues, one especially is ex- 
ceedingly remarkable. It represents Eve, and is the 
work of Antonio Rizzi of Verona in 1471. Its 
charming form exhibits a certain Gothic timidity of 


style, and its ingenuous pose recalls with adorable 


Li2 


$tttttt¢¢et¢¢teetttteeetee 
DURE BR AoA Ge On ITE oD OGES 


awkwardness the attitude of the Venus of Medici, the 
pagan Eve. ‘The other facade, which looks upon the 
Cisterns, was built in 1607 in the Renaissance style, 
with pillars and niches holding antique statues brought 
from Greece, representing warriors, orators, gods, and 
goddesses. A clock and a statue of Doge Urbino, the 
work of Gio Bandini of Florence, complete the severe 
and classical facade. 

On looking at the centre of the court are seen what 
appear to be magnificent bronze altars. They are the 
openings of the cisterns, by Nicolo de Conti and 
Francesco Alberghetti. Ihe one is of 1556, the other 
of 1559, and both are masterpieces. ‘They represent, 
besides the usual griffins, sirens, and chimeras, 
various aquatic subjects drawn from Scripture. It 
is impossible to imagine the richness, the invention, 
the exquisite taste, the perfection of carving, the 
finish of the work of these well margins, which 
are improved by the polish and the patina of time. 
Even the interior of the cistern mouth, overlaid 
by bronze plates, is enriched by a damasked design 
in arabesques. The two cisterns are said to hold 
the best water in Venice, therefore they are greatly 


frequented, and the ropes by which the pails are pulled 


8 EE 


Stitceedeeeettetetesetetet 
TRAN EUS 31 NT aes 


up have worn in the bronze edges grooves two or three 
inches deep. 

Nowhere else in Venice is there a better place to 
study the interesting class of women water-carriers, 
whose beauty is somewhat gratuitously famous, in my 
opinion, for if I did see a few pretty ones, I saw 
very many more ugly and old. ‘Their costume is 
rather striking. ‘They wear tall men’s-hats of black 
felt and a long black skirt which comes up under 
their arms like an Empire gown; their feet are bare, 
as well as their legs, although they sometimes wear 
on the latter a sort of knemis or footless stocking, 
like the peasants of the Valencian Huerta. ‘Their 
chemise, of coarse linen, plaited on the bosom and 
with short sleeves, completes their dress. “They carry 
the water on their shoulders in two pails of red 
copper which balance. Most of these women are 
Tyrolese. 

At the very moment when I stopped at the head 
of the staircase, there was bending over the brazen 
margin of Nicolo de Conti’s cistern one of these 
young Tyrolese, who was pulling up with difficulty, 
—— for she was short and delicate, —a full pail of 


water. Her neck showed, under the masculine head- 


114 


—EEEEEE 


alle 28> abs oe obs obs alle atte obo abe abe aboche ole ofr obs eb ofp obe abe ofr alle ofp obs 


THEYPVUAICH IOP THE YVDOGES 


dress, her pretty, fair hair and the upper part of her 
white shoulders, on which the hot sun had not yet 
tanned the snows of the mountain. A painter would 
have found in this a subject for a pretty picture. 
Personally I greatly prefer to the habit of walking 
between two pails the Spanish and African manner 
of carrying the water on the head in an amphora held 
in equilibrium. Women thus gain an astonishing 
nobility of port. By the way they stand and walk, 
one would think they were antique statues. But I 
have talked enough about water-carriers. 
Near the Giants’ Staircase is seen an inscription 
framed in with ornaments and figures by Alessandro 
Vittoria, recalling the passage of Henry III through 
Venice, and farther along, in the gallery at the en- 
trance to the Golden Staircase, two statues by An- 
tonio Aspetti, — Hercules, and Atlas bending under 
the starry firmament, the weight of which the robust 
hero is about to take on his bull neck. This ex- 
ceedingly magnificent staircase, ornamented with stucco 
work by Vittoria and paintings by Gianbattista was 
built by Sansovino, and leads to the Library which 
now occupies several rooms in the Palace of the 


Doges. 
115 


ttebeebetetttttettttbtk bh: 
PRIA VEL So TN “lal Ary 


The former assembly hall of the Great Council 
(Sala del Maggior Conseglio) is one of the largest 
in existence. The Court of the Lions at the Al- 
hambra could easily be put within it. One is struck 
with astonishment on entering, for, thanks to an effect 
frequent in architecture, the hall appears to be very 
much larger than the building which contains it. 
Sombre and severe wainscoting, in which bookcases 
have taken the place of the stalls of the former 
senators, serves as a plinth to immense paintings 
which run around the wall, broken only by the win- 
dows, under a line of portraits of the doges, and a 
colossal ceiling gilded all over, incredibly rich and 
exuberant in ornamentation, with vast compartments, 
square, octagonal, oval, with branches, volutes and 
rocaille, in a style not very appropriate to the style of 
the palace, but so grandiose and magnificent that it 
fairly dazzles one. One of the sides of the hall — 
that in which is the entrance door — is filled com- 
pletely by a gigantic “ Paradise”? by Tintoretto, which 
contains a whole world of figures. The sketch of 
a similar subject in the Louvre may give an idea of 
this composition, of a kind which suited the fiery 


and disorderly genius of that virile artist who so 


116 


tebbbtbeettttttettttttttee 
THE PALAGE OF THE DOGES 


thoroughly bore out the meaning of his name, Jacopo 
Robusto; for it is a robust painting, and it is a pity 
that time has darkened it so much. The murkiness 
which covers it would suit a picture of Hell equally 
as well as a picture of Paradise. Behind this canvas 
there exists, it is said, an old painting of Paradise 
done on the wall in green camaieu by Guariento of 
Padua in the year 1365. It would be interesting 
to compare the green paradise with the black. It 
takes Venice to have one painting upon another. 
The hall is a sort of Versailles Museum of Vene- 
tian history, with the difference that although the 
exploits represented are less, the painting is far supe- 
rior. No more marvellous prospect can be imagined 
than this vast hall covered all over with these pompous 
paintings in which the Venetian genius excelled, most 
skilful as it was in the arrangement of great works. 
On al] sides there is the shimmer of velvet, the sheen 
of silk, the sparkle of taffeta, the brilliancy of gold 
brocade, the bossing of gems, the heavy folds of 
stiff dalmatics, the fantastic chasing of cuirasses and 
morions, damascened with light and shade and re- 
flecting gleams like mirrors. The sky fills in with 


the blue peculiar to Venice the interstices of the white 


117 


chy ofa abe oe oe ake oh abe abe che beads cece che che ch chee oh ook 


ahs atte one 


aR AY Virb. NY a eee 


pillars, and on the steps of the marble staircases stand 
splendid groups of senators, of warriors, of patricians 
and pages, which form the usual population of a 
Venetian painting. The battles exhibit an indescrib- 
able chaos of galleys with three-storied castles, tops, 
look-outs, triple banks of oars, towers, war machines, 
overthrown ladders bringing down clusters of men; 
an amazing mingling of galley drivers, of galley slaves, 
of sailors, of men-at-arms, killing each other with 
maces, cutlasses, and barbarous engines; some bare 
to the belt, others dressed in singular harness or in 
Oriental costumes in capricious and eccentric taste, 
like those of Rembrandt’s Turks; all swarming and 
fighting, against a background of smoke and fire, or 
on waves which throw up between the galleys their 
long, green crests ending in flakes of foam. It is 
regrettable that in many of these paintings time has 
added its smoke to that of battle, but imagination 
profits by the loss to the eye. Time gives more 
than it takes from the pictures it works over. Many 
masterpieces owe a portion of their merit to the 
patina with which the ages have gilded them. 
Above these great historical paintings runs a series 


of portraits of Doges by Tintoretto, Bassano, and 


118 


i ee 
thee de ote he che cdo te he che obec obec abe che che chee che chock 


THE PAL A@ HOLD inne DOGES 


other painters. Generally they have dark and 
repellent faces, although they are beardless, contrary 
to the generally accepted opinion. In one corner 
the eye stops at an empty black frame which marks 
a break as sombre as a tomb in the chronological 
gallery. It is the place which should have been filled 
by the portrait of Marino Faliero, as is told in the 
inscription: Locus Marini Phaletri, decapitati pro cri- 
minibus. Every efigy of Marino Faliero was also de- 
stroyed, so that his portrait is not to be found. It 
is said, however, that there is one in the possession 
of a Verona amateur. 

Let me add concerning Marino Faliero that he 
was not beheaded at the top of the Giants’ Staircase, 
because that staircase was not built until one hun- 
dred and fifty years later, but at the opposite angle 
at the other end of the gallery on the landing of a 
stair since destroyed. 

I shall name, without pretending to describe them 
in detail, the most celebrated halls in the palace: the 
Sala dei Scarlatti, the mantelpiece of which is cov- 
ered with marble reliefs of the most delicate work- 
manship. ‘There is also placed over it a very curious 


marble bas-relief representing Doge Loredano kneel- 


11g 


LELLAEALLDLALLALLALLALLL ELS 
TRAVELS! i NY Pe Ae 


ing before the Virgin and Child accompanied by 
several saints. It is a capital work by an unknown 
artist. [he Sala dello Scudo, where were placed the 
arms of the living Doge; the Sala dei Filosofi, in 
which there is a very beautiful chimney-piece by 
Pietro Lombardi; the Stanze dei Stucchi, thus named 
on account of its ornamentation. It contains paint- 
ings by Salviati, Pordenone, and Bassano, —a Ma- 
donna, a “ Descent from the Cross,” and a “ Nativity.” 
The Banquet hall, where the Doge gave state dinners, 
—diplomatic dinners, as one would say to-day. It 
has a portrait of Henry III by Tintoretto, strongly 
painted and very handsome, and opposite the door a 
warmly painted ‘ Adoration of the Magi,” by Boni- 
fazzio. ‘The Sala delle Quattro Porte, preceded by 
a square hall the ceiling of which, painted by Tin- 
toretto, represents ‘ Justice handing the sword and 
the scales to the Doge Priuli.” The four doors are 
decorated by statues of fine port by Giulio del Moro, 
Francesco Caselli, Girolamo Campagna, Alessandro 
Vittoria; and masterpieces of painting, among others 
one representing the “ Doge Marino Grimani kneeling 
before the Virgin, with Saint Mark and other saints,” 


by Contarini; and another of Doge Antonio, also 


120 


beobbbbbbbeettdbbettdktectes 
eras Camon ) Cres DOGES 


kneeling before Faith, by Titian, a splendid, golden 
painting in which simplicity is in no wise diminished 
by the ceremonious style. [he compartments of the 
ceiling were designed by Palladio, the stucco work 
is by Vittoria and Bombarda, from the designs of 
Sansovino. A “Venice” by Tintoretto, led by Jupi- 
ter over the Adriatic in the centre of a court of deities, 
fills the central compartment. 

Let us pass next from this hall into the Ante Col- 
legio, the waiting-room of the ambassadors, designed 
by Scamozzi. The envoys of the various powers 
who came to present their letters of credit to the 
Most Serene Republic, cannot have felt in a hurry 
to be introduced; the masterpieces accumulated in this 
splendid antechamber would enable one to wait patiently. 
The four paintings placed near the door are by Tinto- 
retto, and are among his best. I know of none to equal 
them save the “ Adam and Eve,” and the “ Abel and 
Cain” in the Academy of Fine Arts. The subjects 
are: ‘ Mercury and the Graces,” “The Forge of 
Vulcan,” ‘¢ Pallas, accompanied by Joy and Abundance, 
driving away Mars,” “ Ariadne consoled by Bacchus.” 

The marvel of this sanctuary of art is the “ Rape 


of Europa”? by Paolo Veronese. The lovely maid is 


I21 


bebbbt be tttetcette td tcettctdt 
TRAV ETS! TN PIC eae 


seated as upon a silver throne upon the back of the 
divine bull, whose snow-white chest breaks into the 
blue sea, which seeks to reach with its amorous 
ripples the feet of Europa, which she draws up with 
a childish dread of wetting them,— an ingenious de- 
tail in the “* Metamorphoses ” which the painter was 
careful not to forget. Europa’s companions, not 
knowing that the god has taken the noble form of 
that handsome animal so gentle and so familiar, crowd 
upon the bank and cast garlands of flowers at it, un~ 
aware that Europa, thus carried away, is going to 
give her name to a continent and to become the 
mistress of Zeus with the black eyebrows and the 
ambrosial hair. How beautiful show the white shoul- 
ders, the fair neck with the tressed hair, and the 
lovely, round arms! Over the whole of that mar- 
vellous painting, in which Paolo Veronese seems to 
have reached the highest point of perfection, there 
is a glow of eternal youth. The sky, the clouds, 
the trees, the flowers, the ground, the sea, the carna- 
tion, the draperies, all seem flushed with the light of 
an unknown Elysium. All is warm and fresh like 
youth, seductive like voluptuousness, calm and pure 


like strength. There is no mannerism in the care- 


I22 


EL EB oAd ean aks OF THE ‘DOGES 


fulness, no unhealthiness in the radiant joy. In the 
presence of that canvas,—this is high praise for 
Watteau,— I thought of the “* Departure for Cythera;”’ 
only, you must substitute for the lamps of the Opera 
the splendid daylight of the East, for the dainty dolls 
of the Regency in their dresses of ruffled taffeta, su- 
perb bodies in which Greek beauty assumes a softer 
erace under the touch of Venetian voluptuousness, 
and which yielding and living draperies caress. If 
I had to choose a unique work in all Veronese’s, 
this is the painting I should prefer. It is the finest 
gem in his rich casket of jewels. 

On the ceiling the great artist has placed his dear 
Venice upon a golden throne with the rich breadth and 
the abundant grace of which he knows the secret. 
When he paints his Assumption, in which Venice 
takes the place of the Virgin, he always manages to 
find new azure and new beams. 

The magnificent mantelpiece by Aspetti, the stucco 
cornice by Vittoria and Bombarda, the blue camaieus 
by Sebastian Rizzi, the pillars of verd antique and 
cipolin framing in the door complete this wondrous 
decoration, which is marked by the most beautiful 


of all luxury, the luxury of genius. 


422 


LLELEALALALLALAAAALALL LA 
AOR A VIRSLS “IN Slee 


The reception-room or Collegio comes next. Here 
we find again Tintoretto and Paolo Veronese, the one 
tawny and violent, the other azure and calm, the 
former best on great walls, the second on vast ceilings. 
Tintoretto has painted in this hall *¢ Doge Andrea pray- 
ing to the Virgin and Child,” the “ Marriage of Saint 
Catherine,” the “* Doge Dona,” the “ Virgin under at 
baldacchino,” and the ‘Christ adored by the Doge 
Luigi Mocenigo.” On the other wall Paolo Veronese 
has represented Christ enthroned, with the personifica- 
tion of Venice by his side; Faith and Angels who 
hold out palms to Sebastian Venier, who became 
Doge afterward and won the famous victory over 
the Turks at Cursolari on Saint Justina’s day, — 
the latter saint figures in the painting, the famous 
proveditore Agostino Barberigo, who was. slain in 
that battle, and the two figures, on either side, of 
Saint Sebastian and Saint Justina in grisaille, the one 
in allusion to the victor’s name, the other to the date 
of the victory. 

A magnificent ceiling contains in its compartments 
the complete deification of Venice by Paolo Veronese, 
who was particularly fond of this subject. As if this 


apotheosis did not suffice, Venice again figures above 


124 


decked dade och ch obec check oh check 
REE VPAMSAGHAIOE OE (DOGES 


the window with crown and sceptre in a painting by 
Carletto Cagliari. 

I feel that in spite of myself, the nomenclature 
grows apace, but at every step I am stayed by a 
masterpiece. How can I help it? I shall be unable 
to tell you everything,—let your own imagination 
work. There are also in the Palace of the Doges 
three wondrous rooms which I[ have not even named: 
The Hall of the Council of Ten, of the Senate, of 
the Inquisitors of State, and many more. Place the 
‘“¢ Apotheosis of Venice” cheek by jowl with the “ As- 


? 


sumption of the Virgin ” on the ceilings and the walls ; 
make the Doges kneel before the one or the other of 
these Madonnas, with mythological heroes and gods of 
fable; place the lion of Saint Mark near the eagle 
of Jupiter, the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa near 
Neptune, Pope Alexander III near a short-skirted 
Allegory ; mingle with stories drawn from the Bible 
and Virgins under baldacchinos, captures of Zara full 
of remarkable episodes out of a canto in Ariosto, the 
surprise of Candia, and massacres of Turks; carve 
the jambs and the lintels of the doors, load the cor- 
nices with stucco-work and mouldings, set up statues 


in every corner, gild everything which has not been 


125 


TR A VETS “T Noelia 


painted by the brush of a great artist; say to yourself: 
«¢ All those who worked here, even the unknown, had 
twenty times the talent of the celebrities of our day, 
and the greatest masters wore their lives out in this 
place’’;——and then you may have a faint idea of 
splendours which beggar description. 

Near the door of one of these halls is still to be 
seen, though its prestige of terror is lost now that it is 
reduced to the condition of an unused letter-box, the 
old Lion’s Mouth into which informers cast their de- 
nunciations. All that is left is the hole in the wall; 
the mouth itself has been pulled away. A sombre 
corridor leads from the Hall of the Inquisitors of State 
to the Leads and the Wells, which have given rise 
to so many sentimental declamations. Undoubtedly 
there can be no fine prisons, but the truth is that the 
Leads were large rooms covered over with lead, the 
material generally used in Venice for roofing, and 
which does not involve any particular cruelty; also, 
the Wells were in no wise below the level of the 
Lagoon. I visited two or three of these dungeons. 
I expected architectural phantasmagoria in the taste of 
Piranesi, — arches and squat pillars, winding stairs, 


complex gratings, enormous rings made fast in mon- 


126 


tetebtettttttttettttteetes 
Tee Pp A eer PD O.GES 


strous blocks, narrow slits letting fall a greenish light 
upon the damp pavement, —and to be admitted by a 
jailer wearing a foxskin cap with the tail hanging 
down, and bunches of keys clanking at his girdle. As 
a matter of fact it was a venerable guide, looking like 
a Paris janitor, who preceded me, candle in hand, 
through narrow, dark passageways. ‘Ihe wainscoted 
cells had a low door and a small opening opposite the 
lamp hanging from the ceiling of the passageway. A 
wooden camp bed was in one corner. It was close 
and dark, but in no wise melodramatic; a_philan- 
thropist designing a cell could not have done worse. 
On the walls are to be read some of the inscriptions 
which weary prisoners engrave with a nail on the walls 
of their tomb: signatures, dates, short sentences 
drawn from the Bible, philosophical thoughts suitable 
to the place, a timid aspiration for liberty ; sometimes 
the cause of the imprisonment, as in the inscription 
which relates that a captive was imprisoned for sacri- 
lege, having given food to a dead man. At the en- 
trance to the corridor I was shown a stone bench on 
which were seated those who were secretly put to 
death in the prison. A fine cord passed around the 


neck and twisted garote fashion strangled them after 


Lay 


kettbettttttttttttttt tts 
TRAV EC'S) DN aoe 


the Turkish mode. These clandestine executions 
occurred only in the case of prisoners of state con- 
victed of political crimes. The deed done, the body 
was put into a gondola through a door which opens on 
the Canal della Paglia, and it was thrown overboard 
with a cannon-ball or a stone tied to the feet in the 
Orfanello Canal, which was very deep and where 
fishermen were forbidden to cast their nets. Ordinary 
assassins were executed between the two pillars at the 
entrance to the Piazzetta. 

The Bridge of Sighs, which as seen from the Ponte 
della Paglia looks like a cenotaph suspended over the 
water, is nowise remarkable internally. It is a covered 
double corridor, separated by a wall, which leads from 
the Ducal Palace to the prison, a severe, solid piece of 
work by Antonio da Ponte situated on the other side 
of the Canal and which looks upon the side facade of 
the palace supposed to have been built from the de- 
signs of Antonio Ricci. “The name of Bridge of Sighs 
given to this tomb which connects two prisons prob- 
ably arose from the plaints of the unfortunates as they 
proceeded from their cells to the tribunal or from the 
tribunal to their cells, broken by torture or driven des- 


perate by condemnation. At night the canal, closed in 


128 


ne 


bbtetebetettttetbttttt tee 
PHeEGe AL AGHEOH THE DOGES 


by the high walls of the two sombre edifices lighted 
only by occasional lights, looks most sombre and mys- 
terious, and the gondolas which glide along bearing 
a couple of lovers, seem to be bound, with a burden, 
for the Orfanello Canal. 

I also visited the former apartments of the Doge, 
which have lost all their primitive magnificence save 
an exceedingly ornamental ceiling divided into hex- 
agonal compartments gilded and painted. Within 
these compartments, concealed by the foliage and the 
roses, was cut an invisible hole, through which the 
Inquisitors of State and the members of the Council 
of Ten could spy at any hour of the day and night 
what the Doge was doing. ‘The walls, not satisfied 
with listening through an ear, as in the prison of 
Dionysius, looked through an open eye, and the Doge, 
victorious at Zara and Candia, heard, like Angelo, 
steps in the wall and felt himself mysteriously and 


jealously watched. 


9 129 


P “HE Grand Canal is to Venice what the 
Strand is to Londonythe Rue Saint-Honoré 
to Paris, the Calle d’Alcala to Madrid, — 

the chief artery of the city. It is in the shape of a 

reversed S, the centre of which cuts into the city in 

the direction of San Marco, while the upper point ends 
by the island of Santa Chiara and the lower by the 

Dogana near the Giudecca Canal. It is cut about 

the centre by the Rialto. 

The Grand Canal at Venice is the most wonderful 
thing in the world; no other city affords so fair, so 
strange, so fairylike a prospect. Equally remarkable 
specimens of architecture may be met with elsewhere, 
but none under such picturesque conditions. Every 
palace has a mirror in which it can gaze upon its own 
beauty ; the splendid reality is duplicated by a lovely 
reflection ; the water lovingly laves the feet of these 
beautiful facades bathed in a golden light and cradles 


them in a double heaven. ‘The smaller vessels and 


130 


tettde dete td tttttttbttotttts 
PHE EG RAN DD’ CANAL 


the larger boats which can ascend the canal seem 
moored on purpose to fill up the foreground for the 
greater advantage of scene painters and water-colour 
painters. | 

Every wall tells a story, every house is a palace, 
every palace a masterpiece and a legend. With every 
stroke of the oar, the gondolier calls out a name which 
was as well known in crusading days as to-day, and this 
goes on for more than half a league. ‘The list of pal- 
aces would fill up five or six pages. Pietro Lombardi, 
Vittoria, Sansovino, Sammichelli, the great Veronese 
architect, Domenico Rossi, Visentini designed and 
superintended the building of these princely dwellings ; 
to say nothing of the marvellous anonymous artists of 
‘the Middle Ages who erected the most picturesque 
and the most romantic, those which give to Venice its 
peculiar stamp and individuality. 

On both banks follow uninterruptedly facades equally 
charming and diversely beautiful. Next to a Renais- 
sance building with its superimposed pillars and orders, 
stands a medieval palace in the Gothic and Arab style 
of which the Palace of the Doges is the prototype, 
with traceried balconies, arches, trefoils, and dentellated 


acroter; then a facade overlaid with coloured marbles 


131 


Shhh t beds tte hth tt Etettee 
TRAVELS vING hiya 


and adorned with medallions and brackets; then a 
great rose-coloured wall with a vast pillared window. 
You meet with every possible variety, — Byzantine, 
Saracen, Lombard, Gothic, Romanesque, Greek, and 
even rococo architecture; pillars and columns, Gothic 
and Roman arches, fantastic capitals full of birds and 
flowers brought from Acre or Jaffa, or Greek capitals 
found among Athenian ruins, mosaics and bassi-relievi, 
classic severity ana the elegant fancifulness of the Re- 
naissance. It is an immense open-air gallery, in which 
one can study from a gondola the progress of art dur- 
ing seven or eight centuries. How much genius, talent, 
and money have been expended in a space trav- 
ersed in less than an hour! What prodigious artists, 
and what intelligent and splendid lords! What a pity 
that the patricians who caused such beautiful palaces 
to be built should now exist only in the paintings of 
Titian, Tintoretto, and Moro! 

Even before reaching the Rialto there rises on the 
left as you ascend the canal, the Palazzo Dario in the 
Lombard-Gothic style of the fifteenth century; the 
Palazzo Venier, the corner of which shows, with its 
ornaments, its precious marbles, and its medallions, 


also in the Lombard style; the Academy of the Fine 


132 


LLALAADE ESE AA HSA A ELLA SEL 
THE GRAND CANAL 


Arts, the old Scuola di Santa Maria della Carita, with 
its classical facade surmounted by a Minerva with a 
lion; the Palazzo Contarini degli Scrigni, the work 
of Scamozzi; the Palazzo Rezzonico with its three 
superimposed orders; the two Palazzi Schiavoni, 
where lives Natale Schiavoni, a descendant of the 
famous painter of that name, who has a gallery of 
paintings and a beautiful daughter, the living repro- 
duction of a canvas painted by her ancestor; the 
Palazzo Foscari, easily known by its low door with 
its two stories of slender pillars supporting Gothic 
arches and trefoils, where formerly lodged the sover- 
eigns who visited Venice, and now deserted; the 
Palazzo Balbi, on the balcony of which princes leaned 
to watch the regattas which took place on the Grand 
Canal with so much brilliancy and magnificence in the 
heyday of the Republic; the Palazzo Pisani, in the 
German pointed style of the fourteenth century ; and 
the Palazzo Tiepolo, very stylish and comparatively 
modern, with its two elegant pyramidions. On the 
right, close to the Hotel de |’Europe rises between two 
tall buildings a lovely palazzino which consists of a 
window and a balcony,— but what a window, and 


what a balcony! A lace-work of stone scrolls and 


nae. 


BLEDEL ALA APA SSS eetteeteeet 
TRA YE LS “UN oe eae 


tracery! Farther on, the Palazzo Corner della Ca 
Grande, built in 1532, one of the best works of San- 
sovino; the Palazzo Grazzi, now the Hotel de ’Em- 
pereur, the marble staircase of which is adorned with 
beautiful orange trees in pots; the Palazzo. Corner 
Spinelli ; the Palazzo Grimani, a powerful piece of 
work by Sammichelli, the lower marble course of 
which is adorned by a double fret of striking effect, 
— it is now the postoffice; the Palazzo Farsetti, with 
a pillared peristyle and a long gallery of slender col- 
umns running along the whole facade, now occupied 
by the municipal offices. I might say, as does Don 
Ruy Gomez de Silva to Charles V in “ Hernani,” 
when showing his ancestors’ portraits, “I pass many, 
and of the best.” I shall, nevertheless, mention the 
Palazzo Loredan and the ancient dwelling of Enrico 
Dandolo, the victor of Constantinople. Between the 
valaces there are houses equally good, whose chimneys, 
ending in turrets, turbans, and flower vases, diversify 
very agreeably the great architectural lines. 
Sometimes a traghetto (landing) or a piazzetta like 
the Campo San Vitale, for instance, which lies oppo- 
site the Academy, makes a pleasant break in this long 


line of monuments. “The Campo, bordered by houses 


134 


oe abe ahs abe abe obs ob alle obs ole alle alls olls obo ob ole ole obs ole offs offs ofp 


telnet — Silt — elit — Sadi — Salli —4 ay 


THE GRAND AR 


coloured with a bright, cheerful red, contrasts most 
happily with the vine leaves of a tavern arbour; 
that red dash in that line of facades, more or less 
darkened by time, pleases and rests the eye. You 
can always find a painter there, palette in hand and 
paint-box on his knees; and the gondoliers and the 
handsome girls, whom these rascals always attract, 
pose naturally, and from being admirers are turned 
- into models. 

The Rialto, which is the handsomest bridge in 
Venice, has a very grand, monumental look. It spans 
the canal with a single bold, elegant arch. It was 
built in 1588-1592, when Pasquale Cicogna was 
Doge, by Antonio da Ponte. It replaced the old 
wooden drawbridge. 

Two rows of shops separated in the centre by an 
arcaded portico and giving a glimpse of the sky, line 
the sides of the bridge, which may be crossed by any 
one of three ways, —the roadway in the centre, and 
the two outer pavements with their marble balustrades. 
In the immediate neighbourhood of the Rialto, which 
is one of the most picturesque points on the Grand 
Canal, are crowded together the oldest houses in Ven- 


ice with their flat roofs, on which are planted posts for 


455 


LLALD ALE EA bed ehh ttete bese 
TRAVELS LANE DE Asie 


awnings, with tall chimneys, portly balconies, stairs 
with disjointed steps, and great patches of red wash, 
the broken plaster in which shows the dark walls and 
the foundations turned green by contact with the 
water. ‘There is always near the Rialto a mob of 
boats and gondolas, and stagnant islets of crafts moored 
and drying their brown sails which are sometimes 
adorned with a great cross. Shylock, the Jew who 
hungered for Christian flesh, had his shop on the Rialto, 
which is honoured by having furnished the setting of a 
scene to Shakespeare. 

On either side of the Rialto are grouped on both 
banks the Fondaco dei Tedeschi, whose walls, coloured 
with doubtful tints, suggest frescoes by Titian and 
Tintoretto like vanishing dreams; the Fish Market, 
the Grass Market; the Fabbriche Vecchie, erected 
by Scarpagnino, in 1520, and the Fabbriche Nuove 
erected by Sansovino in 1535, in a ruinous condition, 
and in which are installed different government offices. 
These ruinous Fabbriche, with their red tones and their 
wondrous shades due to age and neglect, must drive 
the municipality to despair and cause the deepest joy 
to painters. Under the arcades swarms a busy, noisy 


population which ascends and descends, goes and 


136 


she he oe bebe obo che oh abe te beck bebe coche echo ch oho che 
THE GRAND CANAL 


comes, buys and sells, laughs and shouts. ‘There 
fresh-caught tunny is sold in red slices, and mussels, 
oysters, crabs, and prawns are carried away in basket- 
fuls; while under the arch of the bridge, where is con- 
stantly heard a sonorous echo, sleep the gondoliers in 
the shade, awaiting customers. 

Still proceeding up the canal, there is seen on the 
left the Palazzo Corner della Regina, so named from 
Queen Cornaro. The building, which is by Dome- 
nico Rossi, is exceedingly elegant. “The sumptuous 
palace is now the Monte di Pieta, or pawn office. 

The Armenian College, which is not far off, is an 
admirable building by Baldassare de Longhena, of a 
rich, solid, and imposing architecture. It was formerly 
the Palazzo Pesaro. On the right rises the Palazzo 
della Ca d’Oro, one of the loveliest on the Grand 
Canal. It belongs to Mlle. Taglioni, who has had it 
restored most intelligently. It is embroidered, dentel- 
lated, traceried all over in a Greek, Gothic, barbaric 
taste, so contrasting, so light, so aerial that it seems 
to have been made on purpose for the home of a sylph. 
Mlle. Taglioni has taken pity on these poor, abandoned 
palaces. She pensions a number of them, which she 


keeps up out of sheer pity for their beauty. Three or 


37 


BEEALAADLLALAAAL ALLA AAADAL ALLS 
TRA WE ISS NY er ae 


four were pointed out to me which she has charitably 
restored. 

Now look at these mooring posts painted blue and 
white with golden fleurs de lys. “They mean that the 
former Palazzo Vendramin Calergi has become a semi- 
royal dwelling. It is the home of Her Highness the 
Duchess of Berry, and she is certainly better lodged 
there than in the Marsan Pavilion; for this palace, one 
of the finest in Venice, is a masterpiece of architec- 
ture, and the sculpture is wonderfully fine. There 
is nothing prettier than the groups of children 
holding the shields on the arches of the windows. 
The interior is full of precious marbles. Two 
porphyry columns, of such wondrous beauty that 
they alone are worth the cost of the palace, are 
much admired. 

I have not yet spoken of the Palazzo Moncenigo, 
where dwelt Byron, yet my gondola skirted the marble 
steps where, her hair blowing wild, her feet in the 
water, in rain and in storm, the girl of the people, 
the nobleman’s mistress, welcomed him on his return 
with these tender words: “ You great dog of the 
Madonna! Is this the kind of weather to go to the 


Lido in?” The Palazzo Barberigo also deserves 


138 


ALDDAALDLAE SSAA ALeSAt tte 
Ae ieher Ghee DCA N AT 


mention. I did not see its twenty-two ‘Titians 
which the Russian consul has under seal, having 
purchased them for his master, but it still contains 
some very fine paintings, and the carved and gilded 
cradle intended for the heir of the noble family, — 
a cradle which might be turned into a tomb, for the 
Barberigos, like most of the old Venetian families, 
are extinct. Of nine hundred patrician families 
inscribed on the Golden Book, there are scarcely fifty 
left to-day. 

The old Fondaco de’ Turchi, so much frequented in 
the days when Venice held the trade of the East and 
of India, has two stories of Moorish arches which have 
fallen in or which are filled up by hovels that have 
grown there like poisonous mushrooms. 

At about the point where opens the Cannaregio are 
seen traces of the siege and of the Austrian bombard- 
ment. Some of the shells fell on the Palazzo Labbia, 
which was burned, and have marked the unfinished 
facade of San Geremia. As one draws away from the 
centre of the city, life diminishes, many windows are 
closed or boarded over, but that very sadness has a 
beauty of its own. It is more easily felt by the soul 


than by the eyes, which are treated constantly to the 


Be, 


A basses IN ITALY 


most unexpected effects of light and shade of varied 
fabbriche, which are the more picturesque for their 
ruined condition, to the perpetual movement of the 
waters and the blue and rose tint which forms the 


atmosphere of Venice. 


140 


i 
ie 
ie 
i> 
he 
ie 
i 
i 
ie 


tttitetttebtettht 


DivAigioeaylN jl LAL Y, 


che che hecho be abe che tre che che cece be oe obec 


CFO. OTe OFS ETS 25 OTS CTO BHO OTE CFE 


ie 
ie 
tie 
i 


iene NY VEIN Te 


S I intended to make a prolonged stay in 
A Venice, I took up my abode at the corner 


of the Campo San Moisé, whence I looked 


out both on the Square and the Canal. At the back 
of the Square stood the church of San Moisé, with its 
flashy and eccentric rococo facade, with its violent and 
almost savage exaggeration; not the tasteless, soft, old- 
fashioned rococo that we are accustomed to in France, 
but a robust, strong, exuberant, inventive, capricious 
bad taste. The volutes twist like stone flourishes, the 
brackets jut out unexpectedly, the architraves are 
broken by deep cuts, carved allegories lean on the 
pediments of the arches in Michael-Angelesque pos- 
tures ; the statues, with their swollen contours and their 
manifold draperies, pose in their niches like Hectors or 
dancing masters; the founder’s bust on top of its 
pedestal is so formidable, with its great moustaches, 
that it seems to be the very likeness of Don Spavento. 


Nevertheless, the foliage, close set like the leaves of a 


che choo bso oh oh oe oh te chee decde eee abe cde ce oe choc 
TRAV ETS * DINO I hae 


cabbage, the hollowed rock-work, the napkin-like car- 
touches, the columns with bracelets, the carelessly 
carved figures, the overlay of extravagant ornamenta- 
tion, produce a rich and grandiose effect, in spite of 
good taste offended by every detail, but offended by a 
vigorous imagination. 

This truculent facade is connected by a flying bridge 
with its tower, a diminutive of the Campanile on the 
Piazza San Marco. In Italy architects have always 
been bothered by the bells; they either do not wish to 
or do not know how to connect them with the main 
building. “They seem to have been influenced in spite 
of themselves by the pagan temples, and to have looked 
upon the Gothic steeple as a deformed superfluity, a 
barbarous excrescence. They have turned it into an 
isolated tower, a sort of belfry, and apparently ignore 
the splendid effects of ecclesiastical architecture in 
the North. This by the way. I shall have more 
than once to repeat this remark. 

The entrance to San Moisé is covered by a heavy 
portiere of piqué leather, which, when it is raised, allows 
a glimpse from the Square of gleams of gilding, of 
starry tapers in a transparent shadow, and gives passage 


to warm puffs of incense which mingle with the sounds 


142 


ae oe abs obs ols ob che oe ole be che brads ofa als ale abe abs on obs ole alle abate 


ore CFO HO GO VFO VFO VIG VTS Sie Vie ape die ele wie wie 


ER EgaN VENICE 


of the organ and of the prayers. ‘The campanile has 
no sinecure. It clangs and chimes the livelong day ; in 
the morning it is the Angelus, then Mass, then vespers, 
then the evening prayer. Its iron tongue is scarcely 
ever silent; nothing tires out its bronze lungs. 

Close by, separated by a lane as narrow as the nar- 
rowest callejon in Granada or Constantinople, which 
leads to the traghetto on the Grand Canal, rises in the 
shadow of the church the presbytery, a sombre facade 
washed with a faded red tint, pierced with gloomy 
windows heavily grated, which would strike a dissonant 
note in this bright Venetian picture did not quantities 
of wall plants, falling in wild disorder, brighten it up 
somewhat with their tender green, and a charming 
Madonna, above a poor-box, smile between two lamps. 

The three or four houses opposite contain a baker’s 
shop, a flower shop — the window of which, filled with 
small pots, shows tulips in bloom and rare plants sup- 
ported by sticks and provided with scientific labels, — 
and a general dealer’s shop on the corner on the canal 
side, — all of them whitewashed, diapered with green 
shutters, rayed with balconies, and surmounted by those 
turban-topped chimneys which give to Venetian roofs 


the aspect of a Turkish cemetery. 


143 


ed 


teeetttetetttettttetttte 
WOR A VES: JIN As 


On one of these balconies appeared very often a 
signora who, so far as the distance allowed me to 
judge, was pretty. She was almost always dressed in 
black and handled her fan with Spanish dexterity. It, 
struck me | had already seen her somewhere. On 
thinking the matter over, I recollected that it was in 
Charles Gozzi’s “ Memoirs.” 

On the open face of the Square towards the landing- 
place there is a single-arched marble bridge which 
spans the canal and connects the Campo with the lane 
on the opposite bank leading to the Campo San 
Maurizio. ‘The canal finishes at one end with one of 
those perspectives with which the views of Venice 
have made every one familiar: tall houses, rosy above, 
green below, their tops in the sunshine and their bases 
in the water, arched windows by the side of modern 
square windows, chimneys swelling out into the shape 
of flower pots, long, striped awnings hanging over the 
balconies, golden or brown tiles, house tops crowned 
with statues standing white against the sky, landing- 
posts painted in bright colours, water gleaming in the 
shade, boats moored, or skimming -with their black 
sides past the marble staircases, producing unexpected 


effects of light and shadow. This water-colour, life size, 


144 


debcbobk eek ch babbbdchcb cheb chad choo 
LIFE IN VENICE 


was hung up outside my window on the other side of 
the canal. At the other end, the canal, again spanned 
by a bridge, opened out into the Canalezzo and showed 
a glimpse of the entrance wall of the Dogana di Mare 
and the bronze Fortune turning in the wind on its 
golden ball, as well as the rigging of vessels too large 
to enter the narrow waterways. 

Seated under my balcony and pufing Levantine 
tobacco, I shall now make a sketch of Venetian life. 
It is morning. ‘The white smoke of the cannon-shot 
from the frigate which denotes the opening of the port, 
rises from the lagoon, the angelic salutation clangs from 
the numerous campaniles inthe city. Patrician and 
middle-class Venice is still sound asleep, but the poor 
devils who spend the night on staircases, on the steps of 
palaces, or on the bases of columns, have already left 
their beds and shaken the night dew from their damp 
rags. The boatmen at the traghetti are washing their 
gondolas, brushing the cloth and the /¢/z:, polishing the 
iron of their prows, shaking the black leather cushions and 
the Persian carpet which lies on the floor of their craft, 
and getting their boats in order, ready for customers. 

The heavy craft which bring provisions to the town 


begin to arrive from Mestre, Fusino, Zuecca, —a sort 


} Xe) 145 


bbbbbebetbetbebbbbdbb bebe 


eve CTO CFO oe oe 


DRAWS DN aa 


of maritime suburb, bordered with buildings on one 
side and gardens on the other, — from Chioggia, Tor- 
cello, and other points on the mainland or the islands. 
These boats, heaped up with fresh vegetables, grapes, 
and peaches, leave behind them a delightful odour of 
greenness which contrasts with the briny smell of the 
boats laden with tunny, mullets, poulps, oysters, pidocchi 
(mussels), crabs, shell-fish, and other fruits of the sea, as 
the picturesque Venetian expression has it. Others, 
bringing wood and coal, stop at the water-gates 
to deliver their goods, and then resume their peaceful 
course. Wine is brought, not in barrels as with us, 
nor in goat-skins as in Spain, but in great open tubs 
which it dyes with its purple darker than blackberry- 
juice. ‘The epithet “ black,’ which Homer never fails 
to add to the word wine, is admirably suited to the 
wines of Friuli and Istria. 

The water which is to fill the cisterns is brought in 
the same way, for Venice, in spite of its aquatic situa- 
tion, would die of thirst like Tantalus, for it has not a 
single spring. Formerly the water was fetched from 
the Brenta Canal at Fusino; now artesian wells supply 
most of the cisterns. There is scarcely a campo with- 


out one. The mouths of these reservoirs, surrounded 


146 


bebebbbertttetdttttttetest 
LAME NV ENC E 


by a wall like that of a well, have provided Venetian 
architects and sculptors with the most delightful motives. 
Sometimes they turn them into Corinthian capitals 
open in the centre; sometimes into mouths of mon- 
sters, or again, they wind around the tambour of bronze, 
marble, or stone, bacchanals of children, garlands of 
flowers and fruit, unfortunately worn away too often 
by the rubbing of the ropes and the copper pails. 
These cisterns, filled with sand in which the water 
remains cool, imparta peculiar appearance to the 
squares. [hey are open at certain times, and women 
come to draw water from them as did the Greek slaves 
from the fountains of antiquity. 

There! two gondolas have run foul of each other. 
As you see their halberd irons striking, they look like 
two angry swans picking at each other’s feathers. 
One of the gondoliers did not hear, or heard too late 
the warning cry, a sort of yell in an unknown jargon. 
The dispute grows warmer, and the two champions 
blackguard each other like Homeric heroes before a 
battle. Standing on the poop, they are brandishing 
their sweeps. You fancy they are going to brain each 
other. Chere is no fear of that; it is much ado about 


nothing. The “corpo di Baccho” and other oaths fly 
147 


SLAALAKALALALLLAEEKAAE ALE LALL LAA 
RA ViEOES TN Ay, 


from one boat to the other; but soon mythological 
oaths are insufficient. Insult and blasphemy are ex- 
changed with increasing intensity. Calling heaven into 
their quarrel, they blackguard their respective saints, 
and it is noticeable that the vituperation becomes more 
outrageous as the craft get further apart. Soon nothing 
is heard but hoarse croaks which are lost in the distance. 

Now passes an official gondola with the Austrian 
ensign in the stern, bearing a stiff, cold functionary, 
his breast covered with decorations, on his way to 
some inspection; another is carrying around phleg- 
matic English tourists; a third, slender as a skate, 
flies mysteriously and discreetly towards the open sea. 
The hangings of the fée/ze pulled down and the blinds 
drawn up shelter two lovers who are going to lunch 
together at the Punta di Quintavalle. Another, 
heavier and broader, bears under its white and blue 
awning a worthy family going to bathe at the Lido, on 
the shore whose fine sand still preserves the hoof- 
prints of Byron’s horses. 

Now the church opens, and there emerges a red 
procession bearing a red bier, which is placed in a red 
gondola, for the mourning colour here is red. ‘The 


dead is being shipped off to the cemetery situated on an 


148 


— 


tebbrttbetdbtthbbbdddbb ttt 
LIFE IN VENICE 


island on the way to Murano. The priests, the 
bearers, the candlesticks, and the church ornaments are 
placed in another gondola, which goes first. Go and 
sleep, poor dead man, under the salt sand, under the 
shadow of an iron cross by which the gulls will sweep 
For a Venetian’s bones the mainland would be too 
heavy a covering. 

When any one dies in Venice, there is posted up 
on his house and upon the neighbouring houses, by way 
of information, a printed placard giving the name, the 
age, the birthplace, the cause of death, and a certificate 
that the dead received the Sacraments, that he died 
like a good Christian; and asking the faithful to pray 
for him. 

But away with these melancholy thoughts! The 
wake of the red boat has disappeared. Let us forget 
it as the wave does, which preserves no marks. It is 
of life, and not of death that we must think. 

On the bridge are coming and going young girls, 
working girls, shop girls, servants, with a chemise and 
a skirt under their long shawl. On their necks are 
rolled up long plaits of the reddish hair so dear to the 
Venetian painter. I salute from my window these 


models of Paolo Veronese, who pass by without remem- 


os 


149 


LELeELEELSSSSeettttetttes 
TARA V HLS .) TN) CT Ay 


bering that they posed three hundred years ago for the 
“© Wedding at Cana.” Old women, hooded with the 
national badte, hasten on to get to Mass in time, for 
the last stroke is sounding from San Moise. Austrian 
soldiers in blue trousers, black boots, and gray 
tunics walk across the bridge, which sounds under their 
heavy, regular steps, as they carry to some barracks the 
wood for the kitchen or the victuals for breakfast. 
Ilustrissimi, old ruined nobles, who yet have the grand 
air, with their clean, worn clothes, are going to 
Florian’s, the meeting-place of the aristocracy, to drink 
the excellent coffee, the recipe for which was trans- 
mitted to Venice by Constantinople, and which is not 
equalled anywhere else. Elsewhere, perhaps, these 
ghosts of the past would call forth a smile, but the 
Venetian people love their nobility, which was always 
kindly and familiar. 

Nothing is done in the ordinary way in this quaint 
city. The street musical instruments, instead of being 
carted on the backs of the players, are carried along by 
water; the grinding organs travel in gondolas. ‘There 
is one passing now under my balcony, one of those big 
organs made in Cremona, the home of good violins. 


Nothing could be more unlike those boxes which make 


150 


ase chee oe ah oe he che ae te ctecde tech check chee ob cet 
LW Bea eV ENGL Es: 


dogs howl with anguish at the corners of our squares. 
Drums, triangles, and tambourines transform these into 
a complete orchestra, to the strains of which dance a 
number of marionettes contained within the frame. It 
is like an opera overture wandering around. More 
than one gondola turns out of its way to enjoy the 
music longer, and the harmonious craft proceeds, 
followed by a little dilettante flotilla which traverses 
the canal in its wake. 

Now let us look towards the Square; the picture is no 
less animated there. The open-air kitchen is working, 
the stoves are blazing, sending up a smell of smoke 
and the somewhat disagreeable perfume of hot oil. 
Stews have an important place in Italian life. Sobriety 
is a Southern virtue which is usually backed by idleness, 
and there is very little cooking done in the houses. 
People buy from these open-air kitchens pastes, cakes, 
bits of poulp, or fried fish ; and many, who do not stand 
on ceremony, eat their purchases on the spot. 

The cook himself is a tall, stout, jolly fellow, a sort 
of obese Hercules or Palforio, with bright red cheeks, 
hooked nose, rings in his ears, shining black hair 
curled in small curls like Astrakhan lamb’s wool. He 


turns around like a king on his throne, having about 


151 


tebtbhtbrbbetttbettbbttb tds 
TRAVELS. TN Ue aes 


him three or four rows of shining stamped copper 
dishes like antique bucklers hanging from the rails 
of triremes. 

The dealer in pumpkins, a vegetable which Vene- 
tians are very fond of, also exhibits his wares in quan- 
tities which look like cakes of yellow wax, and which 
he sells in slices. A young maiden from her window 
signs to the dealer and drops at the end of a string a 
basket, in which she hauls up a piece of pumpkin pro- 
portionate to the amount of money she sent down. 
This convenient fashion of marketing is entirely in 
accord with Venetian laziness. 

A group has collected in the centre of the Campo, to 
which are speedily added all the passers-by and all the 
idlers who have come from the bridge, and who are 
proceeding by the lane at the side of the church to the 
Frezzaria or to the Piazza San Marco, the two most 
frequented places in Venice. A space left clear in the 
centre of the group is occupied by a poor wretched 
beggar wearing a mournful hat, dressed in a lamentable 
coat and ragyed trousers. By his side is a hideous old 
woman, a sort of witch, as wretchedly clothed as the 
man. A covered basket is placed on the ground before 


them. A rough-haired dog, sordid, thin, but with the 


2 


keeedbbtberteetetetttetttt tts 
An eee LE NCE 


intelligent look of an academic animal trained to all 
sorts of exercises, gazes at the old couple with that 
human look which a dog has with its master; it seems 
to be awaiting a sign or an order. The old man 
gives a command; the dog dashes to the basket 
and raises one of the sides of the cover with its teeth. 
It remains in it for a few seconds, then pushing the 
other side of the cover with its nose, it comes out 
triumphantly, holding in its mouth a small piece of 
folded paper which it places at the feet of the woman. 
{t does this several times, and the spectators snatch 
from each other the papers thus brought from the 
basket. The dog is drawing numbers for the lottery. 
Those which it brings out at certain times are bound 
to win. The gamblers of both sexes, who are very 
numerous in Venice as in all wretched countries, in 
which the hope of sudden fortunes won without work 
acts powerfully upon the imagination, place the greatest 
trust in the numbers thus fished out by the dog. As I 
beheld the deep wretchedness and the hungry look of 
the couple, and the thin flanks of the dog whose num- 
bers were to win so many crowns, I asked myself why 
these poor devils did not turn to better advantage the 


means of wealth which they distributed so generously 


has 


khEbEALE eS eeetettttttetet 


DPRAWE LS DN: die 


to others for a few sous. ‘That very natural reflection 
did not occur to any one. Perhaps the guessers of 
lottery numbers are like witches, who cannot foretell 
their own future; clairvoyant for others, they are blind 
where they themselves are concerned. If it were not 
so, these two poor wretches would have been greatly to 
blame for not being millionaires at least. 

Venice is full of lottery offices. ‘The winning num- 
bers written upon placards framed in flowers and rib- 
bons in fantastic blue, red, and gold figures, excite the 
cupidity of the passers-by. At night they are brilliantly 
lighted with lamps and tapers. “The favourite num- 
bers, the numbers which must infallibly win in accord- 
ance with the calculations dear to lottery players, are 
also exhibited with much pomp... Certain gamblers 
who obstinately stick to these imaginary systems 
buy them at any cost, and stake, in spite of 
numerous disappointments, their amounts, which 
they double or treble in accordance with mathematical 
progression. 

I took a turn in the Public Gardens, a great place 
planted with trees and making a sort of obtuse angle 
in the scene, the point ending in a hillock on which is 


a café frequented by travelling musicians. Children 


aul 


dedeckobde deck bch bbc bebe hbk deh 


ore ro =e am de 
ELE VN VENICE 
and young girls amuse themselves rolling down the 
gentle slope covered with fine grass. 

The sight ranges over the lagoon. One sees 
Murano, the island of glass-makers; San Servolo with 
its lunatic hospital, and the low line of the Lido with 
its sand-hills, its taverns, and its polled trees. Rows of 
posts indicating the depth of the water, form lanes in 
this shallow sea on which float masses of seaweed. 
The prospect is enlivened by the continual coming and 
going of sails and boats. 

The Public Gardens on féte days contain the love- 
liest collection of Venetian beauties. It is there that 
one can study the Venetian type which Gozzi describes 
as biondo, bianco e grassoto. 

Necessarily the presence of the Austrians must have’ 
modified the Venetian type, although marriages are rare 
on account of national antipathy ; but one still meets 
with the models of Giovanni Bellini, Giorgione, ‘Titian, 
and Veronese. 

The young girls walk about in groups of two or 
three, almost all bareheaded, wearing with much taste 
their splendid fair or brown hair. The dark meri- 
dional type is rather rare among women in Venice, 


although frequent among men. I had already noticed 


155 


tebekebeebeetetetetttttettttst 
TRAVELS UN IS Ane 


that fact in Spain at Valencia, where the men have 
black hair, olive complexions, with the tanned, wan 
look of a tribe of African Bedouins, while the women 
are as fair, fresh, and rosy as Lancashire farmer girls. 

I saw a great many lovely faces, but though I re- 
member them very well, it would be difficult to repro- 
duce them without a pencil. I shall merely try to 
suggest the general features. The lines of the face, 
without being as perfect as those of the Greeks, which 
are of almost architectural regularity and which are the 
very type of beauty, have nevertheless a rhythm lack- 
ing in Northern faces, which are more worn by 
thought and the numberless troubles of civilisation. 
The nose is neater and cleaner in form than Northern 
noses, which are always marked by something unex- 
pected and capricious. ‘The eyes, too, have that shin- 
ing placidity which is unknown with us and which 
recalls the clear, quiet glance of an animal. They are 
very often black in spite of the fair colour of the hair. 
On the lips is seen that smorfia, a sort of disdainful 
smile very provoking and charming, which imparts so 
much character to the heads of the Italian masters. 

The Venetians have most lovely necks and shoul- 


ders. Nothing can be imagined more beautiful or 


156 


bebe h hsb ss tehetetteet tts 
PE et VCE INOUE, 


more finely rounded. The necks partake at once of 
the swan and the dove as they bend and swell; and all 
sorts of wild hair in rebellious curls escaped from the 
comb, play on them with changes of light, flashes of 
sunshine, effects of shadow which would delight a 
painter. After taking a walk in the Public Gardens 
one is no longer surprised at the golden splendour of 
the Venetian school. What had been taken for a 
dream of art is often but the imperfect reproduction of 


reality. 


157 


N my way back to the Piazzetta I saw some 
() young gentlemen as fond of aquatic prowess 
as our Parisian club men, driving their gon- 

dolas at full speed against the quay wall. When they 
were within a few inches of the stone revetment, they 
stopped their craft short by a sudden stroke of the oar. 
This sport is graceful and exciting. When you see 
the gondola flying so fast, you are sure that it will be 
smashed to pieces, but that never occurs, and the fun 
begins all over again. It is in the same way that 
Turkish and Arab riders send their horses at full 
gallop against a wall and pull them up on all fours, 
making the immobility of repose follow upon the rush 
of speed. The ancient Venetians may have seen these 
equestrian fantasias in the Atmeidan at Constantinople 
and adopted them for use in their own country, where 
the horse is, so to speak, a chimerical creature. More 
than one young patrician even now puts on the tradi- 


tional jacket, cap, and sash, and drives his own gon- 


158 


abe obs ob ole obs abe ole cle obbe obs cdo cle che obo obs ols obs ob abe be of ofp che 
Me oe whe ore ere ete wre one OTe OTe HO WTS 


obs che obs obs obo 


SOND ORER RSa AND SUNSETS 


dola himself with great skill. Strangers also are fond 
of doing so, especially the English, who are a nautical 
people. 

There are lovely sunsets in Paris. When you leave 
the Tuileries by the Place de la Concorde, as you turn 
towards the Champs-Elysées, it is difficult not to be 
dazzled by the magnificent spectacle: the masses of 
trees, and the Egyptian obelisk, the wonderful prospect 
of the great avenue, the magnificent arch which opens 
on space, form a splendid setting for the orb which 
expires in splendour more brilliant to our eyes than 
that of day. But there is something finer still, and 
that is a sunset at Venice when you are coming from 
the Lido, Quintavalle, or the Public Gardens. 

The lines of houses of the Giudecca, broken by the 
dome of San Redentore; the point of the Dogana di 
Mare with its square tower; the two domes of Santa 
Maria della Salute, form a marvellous sky line which 
stands out boldly as the background of the picture. 
The island of San Giorgio Maggiore, nearer us, sets it 
off with its church, its dome and brick campanile, — a 
diminutive of the. greater Campanile which is seen on 
the right, above the old Library and the Palace of the 
Doges. All these buildings bathed in shadow, for the 


159 


LELLELLELELELALELL ASE L ES 
TRAV BLS’ ING PEA DT 


light is behind them, are of azure, lilac, and violet 
tones, on which stands out black the rigging of the ves- 
sels at anchor. Above them is a conflagration of 
splendour, an outburst of beams. The sun sinks in 
masses of topaz, rubies, amethysts, which the wind 
changes incessantly as it alters the forms of the clouds. 
Brilliant rays spring between the two cupolas of the 
Salute. Sometimes, according to the point of view, 
Palladio’s belfry cuts in two the orb of the sun. 
This is all very beautiful, but the wondrous spectacle 
is made finer by being repeated in the water. The 
sunset has the Lagoon for a mirror. All the light, all 
the rays, all the fire, all the phosphorescence, ripple 
over the waves in sparks, spangles, prisms, and trails of 
flame, shining, scintillating, flaming, swarming lumi- 
nously. “The tower of San Giorgio Maggiore, with its 
opaque shadow stretching afar, shows black against the 
conflagration, which increases its height in the strangest 
fashion and makes it seem as if its base were within 
an abyss. ‘The outlines of buildings appear to float 
between two heavens or between two seas. Is it the 
water which reflects the sky, or the sky which reflects 
the water? The eye hesitates, and all is confounded 


in one vast dazzling splendour. 


160 


tkbbbhbeobbbeeebtbeebe bed 
GONDOLIERS AND SUNSETS 


I was landed at the traghetto della Piazzetta in the 
midst of a rout of gondolas, and I went on to the 
Piazza through the arcades of the Old Library of San- 
sovino, now the Viceroy’s palace. 

It is on the Piazza at about eight in the evening that 
life in Venice reaches its maximum of intensity. It is 
impossible to see anything more cheerful, lively, and 
amusing. The setting sun lights up with the most 
brilliant rosy red the facade of San Marco, which seems 
to blush with pleasure and to sparkle radiantly under 
the dying beams. A few late pigeons fly back to the 
cornices or the gables, where they will sleep until morn- 
ing, their heads under their wings. 

The Piazza is lined with cafés, like the Palais Royal 
in Paris, which it resembles in more than one respect. 
These cafés are in no wise remarkable from the point 
of view of their decoration, especially if they are com- 
pared with the splendid establishments of the kind 
which Paris possesses. [hey consist simply of very 
plain rooms, rather low-ceiled, in which no one ever sits 
except in the worst winter days. Coffee, which is ex- 
cellent in Venice, is served on copper trays, with a 
glass of water which the Venetians spend hours in 


drinking. Ices and iced drinks are noticeable only for 


II 161 


abe cbr obs os obs obs obo ob che ole abe bn ebe obe ole ofr obv ole abe obs obs ole elle ole 


OTs oe ote OTe obs Cre are eTe OF Cle aye OW WO wTe vee owe 


TRAV EDS DN BASE 


their low price, and are far from equalling the exquisite, 
refined Spanish iced drinks. ‘The only special thing I 
found was a grape sherbet, very cool and tasty. 

The customers sit under the arcades or on the Piaz- 
zetta itself, on which are placed before each café 
wooden benches and tables. Formerly tents and striped 
awnings were raised in thecentre of the Square; that 
picturesque custom has vanished. Striped blinds are 
also becoming rare. “They are too often replaced by 
hideous strips of blue cloth very much like cooks’ 
aprons. Civilised people say they are less showy and 
in better taste. 

Very trig and free and easy looking flower-girls 
swarm on the Square and amuse passers-by and cus- 
tomers with their pretty requests. When you refuse 
to buy, they laughingly give you a small bunch and 
run away. It is not customary to pay them at once, 
it would be rude, but from time to time you give 
them a small coin by way of a gift. The flower- 
girls are followed by vendors of iced fruits who shout, 
“Caramel! caramel!” in deafening fashion. Their 
stock consists of candied grapes, figs, pears,. and 
prunes, which they carry in_ baskets. 


Venetian women of the upper class are most de- 


162 


Bete tt th. cde obs obs obs obs obs obs cboobs abe abe chs chsths she chs che shoe 


We Oe aie C60 one C1o wie OFF wie ee Ve Re eae ese iv die eiw dee ai Vie caw 


GONDOLIERS AND SeWAN SHES 


lightfully indolent and lazy. “They have forgotten how 
to walk, through using the gondola. Even in this fine 
climate, it takes an uncommon combination of circum- 
stances to induce them to venture forth. The sirocco, 
sunshine, a threatening shower, or a too fresh sea-breeze 
are sufficient to make them stay at home. ‘The great- 
est exercise they take is going from their sofa to the 
balcony to breathe the perfume of the great flowers 
which bloom so splendidly in the moist, warm air of 
Venice. Their idle and confined life gives them an 
indescribably delicate, mat, white complexion. 

If by chance the weather is exceptionally fine, a 
few of them may walk two or three times around 
the Piazza San Marco, when the band is playing in 
the evening, and they rest long in front of the Café 
Florian in company with their husbands, brothers, or 
cavaliere servente. 

Formerly Levantines were very numerous in Ven- 
ice. Their pelisses, their dolmans, their full coats 
of bright colours showed picturesquely among the 
crowd which they traversed impassible and grave. 
They are not so frequently met with now that com- 
merce has been largely transferred to Trieste, but 


Greeks are often met, with their caps the blue silk 


163 


che che oe oe oe os oe oe oh abe oe cece oe obe che oooh cbr oh ob check 
EPFRAVELS. IN: DT ADDY 


tassel of which falls upon the shoulders, their temples 
shaved, their hair falling behind, their characteristic 
features and their handsome national dress, which con- 
trasts strikingly with the hideous modern costume. 
These Greeks, who, most of them, are only merchants, 
or skippers of Zante, Corfu, Cyprus, or Syra vessels, 
have a remarkably majestic port, and the nobility 
of their antique race is imprinted on their features as 
on a golden book. ‘They repair in groups of three or 
four to the corner of the Piazza, to the Costanza 
Café, which enjoys the monopoly of supplying the 
children of the Levant with coffee and pipes. 
Around the cafés wander street musicians, who 
perform operatic selections, and tenors singing Lucia 
or some other air of Donizetti with the rich voices 
and the admirable, instinctive Italian facility which 
so closely imitates talent that one may be deceived 
by it. Chinese marionettes, which differ from ours 
in that the background of the picture is black and 
the figures are white, show swiftly one after an- 
other under the canvas awning. A group forms in 
the centre of the square. The tenor is but little 
listened to, the Chinese marionettes are deserted by 


the spectators, the caramel sellers cease their monot- 


164 


bebeetteetetettetecetcetee 
OR Ner Orbs homer NDF oUIN SETS 


onous cry, chairs are turned half around, everybody 
is silent. “The desks have been arranged, the music 
distributed, the military band arrives, the prelude is 
heard, and they begin. It is the overture to “ William 
Tell.’ The overture over, the crowd withdraws. 
Soon there are only a few people walking about, and 
birrichini, a sort of ruffans whose most honest busi- 
ness is selling smuggled cigars. Though you may 
still read in the accounts of modern travellers that 
night is turned into day in Venice, it is none the 
less true that by midnight the Piazza is deserted, but 
this will not prevent tourists, on the faith of old 
accounts which refer to customs fallen into desuetude 
since the fall of the Republic, from repeating for the 
next fifty years that the Piazza San Marco swarms 
with people until daylight. ‘That was true enough 
when the apartments above the arcades of the Pro- 
curatie Vecchie and Nuove were occupied by gam- 
blers and casinos, in which crowded all night a company 
of nobles, adventurers, and courtesans, —a_ perpetual 
carnival in which nothing was lacking, not even the 
mask, and of which Casanova de Seingalt has given 
such interesting descriptions in his ** Memoirs.” 


The offices of the brokers, the shops in which are 


165 


ttetbretbetettttdbbbtbtdbtts 
AR AoVe EY LS.) Il Netgear 


sold the Murano glass-ware, shell and coral necklaces, 
and models of gondolas, those which sell views, maps, 
and engravings of Venice, had closed one after an- 
other. The only places left open were the cafés and 
the tobacco shops. 

It was time to get back to my gondola, which 
was waiting for me at the Piazzetta landing. ‘The 
moon had arisen, and nothing is more delightful than 
an excursion by moonlight along the Grand Canal 
or the Giudecca. It is a romantic situation which 
an enthusiastic traveller cannot omit on a beautiful, 
bright August night. I had another reason for wan- 
dering on the lagoon at a time when it would have 
been wiser to vanish within my mosquito net. Who 
has not heard of the gondoliers singing the ottavi of 
‘Tasso, and barcarolles in the Venetian dialect, so 
lisping and broken that it resembles a child’s first 
attempts? The gondoliers have long since ceased to 
sing, and yet the tradition is not quite lost; the older 
men do preserve within their memories some episodes 
of “ Jerusalem Delivered,’ which they are willing 
enough to recollect in return for a heavy tip and a 
few jars of Cyprus wine. Like the maidens of Ischia 


who put on their beautiful Greek costumes for Eng- 


166 


INGO oleae No CUIN SB ES 


lishmen alone, the gondoliers will sing their melodies 
only when well paid for doing so. | 

When we had got some distance out in the great 
Canal of the Giudecca, which is almost an arm of 
the sea, about opposite the Jesuit church, the white 
facade of which was silvered by the moon, my gon- 
dolier, after having wetted his whistle, sang in a 
guttural, deep, somewhat hoarse voice, but which was 
heard a long way over the water, with prolonged 
cadences, “ La Biondina in Gondoletta,” ‘ Pronta la 
Gondoletta,” 
Shepherds.” 


I had committed the mistake of bringing my singer 


and the episode of “ Erminia among the 


with me instead of putting him in a boat at a dis- 
tance and listening to him from the shore, for the 
music is pleasanter farther away than near, but be- 
ing more of a poet than a musician, I wanted to hear 


the lines. 


167 


decked teak beck ohe check echo ech echo oh eh 
TRAVELS IN Tie 


tettetbtttbtbetts 


re 
a 
2. 
= 
ie 
tie 
+ 
ih 
ts 
ib 


THE ARSENAL—FUSINE 


T was fine, and the’fancy took me, on seeing the 

| beautiful sky, to go to breakfast at Franco 
Porto on the Island of San Giorgio Maggiore ; 
turning the opportunity to account to visit Palladio’s 
beautiful church, the red belfry of which shows to 
such advantage against the lagoon. The facade has 
been somewhat retouched by Scamozzi. The interior 
contains, besides the inevitable huge paintings by Tin- 
toretto, — the robust artist who painted acres of master- 
pieces, —columns of Greek marble, gilded altars, stone 
and bronze statues, an admirable choir in carved wood- 
work representing different scenes in the life of Saint 
Benedict, which recalled to me the wonderful wood 
carvings by Berruguete in the Spanish cathedrals. A 
pretty bronze statuette, placed on the choir rail on the 
right as you enter, represents Saint George, and is 
remarkable as being the most admirable likeness ever 
made of Lord Byron. ‘This anticipated, and as it 


were, prophetical portrait struck me greatly. The 


168 


HLEAAALAAAAAADAAALLAAL ELSA 
THE ARSENAL—FUSINE 


head of the Greek saint is the most elegant, disdainful, 
aristocratic, thoroughly English that it is possible to 
conceive; even the lips are contracted by the sneer 
of the author of “Don Juan.” I do not know 
whether the noble lord, who lived in Venice for a 
long time and who must have visited the church of 
San Giorgio Maggiore, noticed as I did that unique 
resemblance, which must certainly have flattered him. 
Behind the church, which is built on the point of 
the island looking towards the Piazzetta and where the 
Austrians have established a battery of guns, stretch 
the warehouses and basins of the Franco Porto. You 
traverse, after having passed through a gate guarded 
by custom-house inspectors, great courts surrounded by 
high arcades, and reach a sort of tavern and osteria, the 
rendez-vous of sailors and gondoliers, who there enjoy 
the pleasure of drinking wine duty free, very much as 
our Paris workmen go and get drunk outside the city. 
The place is always filled with people, and the cus- 
tomers overflow outside on benches around wooden 
tables shaded by the church. Porters pushing hand- 
carts loaded with bales move in and out among the 
drinkers, whom they look at enviously, and by whom 


they will come and sit down when they have earned 


169 


need 


deseo soe oe oe os oe ob eck decbeceecke de cdech check 
TRAVELS IN ITALY 


the few sous needed for their frugal orgies. Opposite 
the tavern a great empty warehouse looking like a 
casemate, whitewashed, with grated windows looking 
out upon a deserted lane, serves as a refuge to people 
who are troubled by the somewhat noisy gaiety out- 
side, and lovers who seek solitude. 

There you are served with Adriatic ¢rig/i (mullets) 
so appetising, so golden red, so bright, so brilliant in 
tone that you would eat them simply on account of 
their colour, even were they not the very best fish in 
the world. Peaches, grapes, a jar of Cyprus wine, 
and coffee compose a breakfast exquisite in its simplic- 
ity, and if by chance you have a good Havana cigar 
which you can smoke in your gondola as you return 
towards the Riva degli Schiavoni, I do not quite see 
what more you want in order to be happy, especially 
if the night before you have received satisfactory letters 
from home. 

It is early, and before going to Fusine I shall have 
time to visit the Arsenal; not the interior, for that is 
now forbidden, but I am more interested in admiring 
the Lions of the Piraeus, trophies won by Morosini 
during the Peloponnesian War, than vessels in process 


of building and endless rows of guns. 


170 


IN, _ a 


che be cheb oe che abe oh ae cba heeds cheba oe chee abe che eae abel 


we ere a Ow we ate wie ene 


THE ARSENAL—FUSINE 


The two colossi in Pentelic marble lack the zodlogi- 
cal truthfulness which Barye would undoubtedly have 
imparted to them, but there is something so proud, so 
grandiose, so divine,—if one may say so of animals, 
— about them that they produce a striking impression. 
Their golden whiteness stands out admirably against 
the red facade of the Arsenal, which is composed of 
a portico covered with meritorious statues which the 
nearness of the splendid lions causes to look like dolls, 
and of two crenellated towers of red brick with bands 
of stone like the houses of the Place Royale in Paris. 
Though they are trophies of a defeat, they still pre- 
serve their haughty, superb, proud look, and these 
lions seem to’ remember in the City of Saint Mark the 
antique Minerva. 

The gloomy loneliness of the Arsenal, with its vast 
basins, its covered building-sheds, in which it is said 
a galley could be built, rigged, equipped, and launched 
in one day, recalled to me the Arsenal at Cartagena in 
Spain, which was so active in the days of the invincible 
Armada. It was from this Venetian Arsenal that 
started the fleets that went to conquer Corfu, Zante, 
Cyprus, Athens, and all the rich, fair islands of the 


Archipelago; but Venice was Venice then, and the 


171 


tebbbteobtettttdbbbbtddt dds 
TR AW) Has oN ot Aa 


Lion of Saint Mark, now gloomy and defamed, had 
teeth and claws like the fiercest of heraldic monsters. 

We passed between San Giorgio and the Giudecca 
Point, skirting closely its gardens and enclosures full 
of vines and fruit trees, and entered the lagoon 
properly so-called. 

The sky was absolutely clear, and the light was so 
brilliant that the water shone like a sea of silver and 
the sky line was absolutely invisible. The islands 
showed like little brown spots, and distant craft seemed 
to sail in mid-heaven. ‘The railway bridge, a gigantic 
work which links Venice with the mainland and which 
I saw far off on the right, offered a singular effect of 
mirage. Its numerous arches, repeated in the still, 
blue water, formed perfect circles and resembled those 
strange, round Chinese doors which are seen upon 
screens; so that the architectural fancy of Pekin 
seemed to have built this quaint avenue for the city of 
the Doges, the sky line of which, broken by numerous 
belfries and topped by the Campanile surmounted with 
its golden angel, showed in the most picturesque and 
unexpected fashion. 

After having passed a fortified island, bearing on its 


summit a charming statue of the Madonna and a very 


172 


che robe ofr oe oe oe che chs abe obese fecha cde alec sob ce oe oale 


wre oTe e7e ofS wTO 


TEEPE SAGRiS pera 1 —— BES TNE: 


ugly Austrian sentry, I followed one of the canals 
in the lagoon buoyed by a double row of poles which 
mark the places where the water is sufficiently deep; 
for the lagoon is a sort of salt marsh which the ebb and 
flow of the tide prevent from stagnating, but which is 
never more than three or four feet deep except along 
certain lines deepened by nature or by man. Some of 
the piles have at the top little miniature diptychs made 
by pious sailors, which contain images and statues of 
the Madonna. The gracious protectress, who is called 
in the litanies Stella Maris, Star of the Sea, is there in 
her element. ‘These Madonnas in the water are 
touching. Undoubtedly the Deity is present every- 
where, and His protection falls from heaven as quickly 
as it rises from the sea, but the pious belief in a more 
immediate succour, the protectress being transported 
into the very midst of the peril, has something child- 
ishly charming and poetic about it. I am very fond of 
these Venetian Madonnas, washed by the salt mists and 
struck by the wing of the passing gull, and I willingly 
say, as I pass them, “‘ 4ve, Maria, gratia piena!” 
The blue line of the Euganean Mountains showed 
faintly ahead against the tender blue of the sky, rather 


as a vein of deeper azure than a terrestrial reality. 


rae 


oh fe ob ahs oe oh oh ok oh abe dh checke decked obec dhe cheek 
ATR ACViEGIS® 4. UN; Dighgaviegy 


The trees and houses on the shore, which I could 
already perceive, seemed on account of the curve of the 
sea to plunge half-way into the water, and the red 
campaniles on the islands appeared to spring from the 
wave like great branches of coral. A low shore 
covered with varied vegetation lay before me. I 
sprang out of the gondola; I had reached Fusine. 

The ravages of the war had not been repaired at 
Fusine. Some of the houses, half ruined by cannon- 
balls, smashed by shells, spoiled, with their broken 
white walls, amid the luxuriant vegetation, looked like 
bones forgotten on a battlefield. AQ little rustic chapel 
is intact, either because it was respected during the fight, 
or because the dwelling of God was restored before that 
of men. ‘The rich, damp soil, impregnated with 
marine salts, enriched with vegetable detritus, heated 
by the vivifying sunshine, has given birth in loneliness 
and solitude to a whole wild flora of those lovely plants 
which are called weeds because they are free. It is a 
virgin forest on a small scale. Wild oats wave on the 
edge of the ditches, the hemlock expands its umbellz 
of greenish white, the wild mallow spreads its curled 
leaves and its pale-rose flowers, the wild convolvulus 


clings with its silver bells to the branches of brambles ; 


174 


Shboh bee bbbebbbbhtbbb bbe 


eTe e7e efe ore eTe eve ore wre 


THE ARSENAL—FUSINE 


the grass, which comes up to your knees, is diapered 
with innumerable unnamed flowers, little spangles of 
gold, azure, or purple cast here and there by the great 
colourist to break the uniform green tint. By the 
banks of the canals the water-lily displays its great 
viscous, heart-shaped leaves and its yellow flowers, the 
spear-head of the sagittaria trembles in the breeze, the 
loosestrife, with its willow-like leaf, bends under the 
weight of its purple spikes, the iris sends up its dagger- 
like leaf; the ribboned reeds, the flowering rushes, 
are mingled in the wildest and most picturesque dis- 
order. Elders, hazels, shrubs, and trees which no one 
trims, cast a shadow flecked with sunshine over this 
rich mass. 

Quick, swift lizards with quivering tails traverse like 
arrows the narrow path where the tree-frog conceals 
itself in the rut full of rain water. Bands of frogs 
dive under the grasses of the Brenta as you pass by. 
A beautiful water-snake fearlessly indulges in the most 
graceful convolutions. 

Weirs and locks, forming breaks in the scene, retain 
the water here and there; light brick arches, which 
serve the double purpose of counterforts and of bridges, 


frequently span the canal; but all is half ruinous, and 


AS) 


tebbbtbbedeeteeehe tt ddd dds 
WeR AV Ess) TN Gael Aves 


invaded by the vegetation which slips into the place of 
the bricks or the stone. This neglect is regrettable 
from the point of view of the engineer, but from that 
of the painter it is quite otherwise. If moss cover the 
revetments, if wall plants disjoin the stones, if the 
reeds end by filling up the canals, it all looks well in 
the landscape. 

On returning, the gondolier took me through water- 
Janes with which I was not previously acquainted. 
Decaying cities are like dying bodies; life, confined 
to the heart, little by little deserts the extremities. 
Streets become depopulated, old quarters become soli- 
tary, the blood lacks the strength to flow through the 
veins. ‘The entrance to Venice, coming from Fusine, 
is mournful. Only a few boats bringing goods from 
the mainland glide slowly over the sleeping waters 
by the side of the deserted houses. Palaces of exqui- 
site architecture are windowless; the openings are 
closed by rough boards. The whitewash on the aban- 
doned houses chips away, the moss spreads its green 
carpet over the substructures, shells and seaweed cling 
to the water-steps which crabs alone now ascend. At 
the windows of the few inhabited houses are rags hung 


out to dry, sole indication of the life of the wretched 


176 


$ttetetetetttett tt etttes 
THE ARSENAL—FUSINE 


households which have taken refuge there. Occasion- 
ally a magnificently wrought iron grating, a balcony 
with complicated ornamentation, a broken coat of 
arms, slender marble columns, a mask, a sculptured 
cornice on a wall cracked, blackened, and guttered by 
the rain, degraded by carelessness, betoken former 
splendour and mark the palace of a patrician family 
which has died out or sunk into poverty. As one 
proceeds the painful impression is gradually removed, 
life is renewed, and it is with pleasure that one enters 
again upon the animated Grand Canal or the Piazza 
San Marco. 

Time had seemed short to me at Fusine; it was 
already the dinner hour. The crabs which swarm in 
the canals were beginning to show their ugly bodies 
and their crooked claws above the line traced by the 
water at the foot of the houses; a performance which 
they go through every evening at six o’clock as punc- 
tually as if regulated by a chronometer. 

I dined that day at the Campo San Gallo, a square 
behind the Piazza in a German gasthoff, where I 
enjoyed the change from the vini nostrani to a glass of 
Minich beer. I dined there in the open air under an 


awning striped saffron and white, side by side with 


1002 177 


French painters, German artists, and Austrian officers ; 
the latter short, fair, slender young fellows in close-fit- 
ting, elegant uniforms, very polite, very well-bred, with | 
Werther-like faces and quite free from soldierly man- 
ners. ‘The conversation was usually zsthetic, broken 
here and there by a complicated, laborious joke, a 
remembrance of Jena, Bonn, or Heidelberg. 

In the centre of the Campo rose the margin of a 
well where the women of the neighbourhood and the 
Styrian water-carriers came to draw water at certain 
hours. At the back was a little church bearing the 
arms of the Patriarch of Venice, the door of which, 
closed by a curtain, sent out a faint perfume of incense 
to mingle with the smells from the gasthoff kitchen, 
and from which the sound of prayer and of organ 
notes mingled with discussions on art and philosophy. 
From time to time some bat-like old women, their 
heads concealed within black hoods, vanished within 
after raising the portiére. 

Young girls, bareheaded and draped in_ brilliant 
shawls, passed by, fan in hand, smile on lip, brushing 
gently aside with their feet the festooned flounces of 
their skirts, and instead of entering the church, went 


into a narrow lane which leads from the Campo San 


178 


soe abe oe be oboe oe oe cba de cede de oe oe obec coche abe lob 


mo ae ore we wie ene 


Aki by OAKS bawene is — BUS TNE 


Gallo to the Piazza. There passed by also stout 
priests with honest, jolly faces, going to some evening 
service. ‘They wore purple stockings like bishops, and 
red shoes like cardinals, which, it is said, is a privilege 
of the Quarter San Marco, the patriarchal metropolis. 
On a modest-looking house opposite the gasthoff was 
a slab in marble bearing a Latin inscription. It was 
there that Canova died. I cannot resist the pleasure 
of copying the beautiful and touching inscription, 
which may be translated thus for the benefit of ladies 
who do not know Latin, and of men who have for- 
gotten it: “ This house of the Francesconi, which he 
had preferred to more sumptuous hospitality because 
of the candour of a former friendship, Canova, easily 
prince of sculptors, consecrated with his last breath.”’ 
After I had despatched my modest repast, seeing 
nothing interesting on the theatre posters which 
covered the arcades of the Procuratie, I traversed the 
streets aimlessly, which is the best way to become 
acquainted with the familiar life of a people; for books 
speak scarcely of anything but monuments and remark- 
able things, leaving out all the characteristic details and 
the innumerable, almost imperceptible differences which 


remind you constantly that you are in a foreign land. 


BA9 


b 
iP 


doe oe abe oe oh eae oe abe dee cece cb che che doce oe doce 


LABAV ELS IN: el ee 
& ch coal ce be ees 


ie 
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it 
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{ie 
it 
iP 
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T the entrance to the Grand Canal, by the 
yA side of the white church della Salute and 
opposite the red houses of the Campo di 
San Vitale — a point of view made illustrious by Can- 
aletto’s masterpiece —rises the Academia di Belle 
Arti, where, thanks to the late Count Leopoldo Cicog- 
nara, have been collected a large number of the treas- 
ures of the Venetian School. ‘The arcaded facade is 
from the design of Giorgio Massari, and the sculptor 
Giacarelli is the author of the “ Minerva seated upon 
a Lion,” which decorates the attic. 

When the Venetian School is spoken of three names 
at once recur to the mind: Titian, Paolo Veronese, and 
Tintoretto. “They seem to have been born spontane- 
ously, like flowers, of the azure of the sea under a 
warm beam of sunshine. By the side of them one 
puts Giovanni Bellini and Giorgione, and that is all. I 
am speaking of the public and of ordinary amateurs 


who have not seen Italy, and who have not made a 


180 


KLEAAKKALEALEPSELAA ALAA ALA 
OEE ean 10-1: WIRY: 


special study of Venetian painting. Yet there exists a 
whole series of artists, almost unknown, but admirable, 
who preceded the great men whom [| have mentioned, 
as dawn precedes day, less brilliant, but. more tender 
and fresher. ‘I"hese older Venetians join to all the art- 
less delicacy, all the unction, all the suavity of Giotto, 
Perugino, and Hemling, an elegance, a beauty, and a 
richness of colouring which these never attained. It is 
remarkable that the paintings of the school of colourists 
have almost all turned black; the harmony of the tints 
has disappeared under smoky varnish, the g/acis is faded, 
the first sketch shows through the overlaying; while 
the works of the school of line painters, with their 
timid and minute methods, their lack of thick colouring, 
‘their very simple local tone, preserve incomparable 
brilliancy and youth. ‘These panels and canvases, an- 
terior often by as much as a hundred years to the 
famous paintings, seem, but for the style which indi- 
cates the date, to have been painted yesterday. ‘They 
still possess the bloom of novelty ; the ages have passed 
over them without leaving any trace. ‘There is no re- 
touching, no re-painting about them. Is it because 
the colours used by these men were purer, chemistry 


not being then sufficiently developed to adulterate them 


181 


We ee wTe OTe ore OFS ame OFS ewe Gre OF are wre ove 


TROAW Beat S:. IN Cae 


abe abe obs ols obs obs oll ols obs ob alle ofle ole of ole abr abe ols os che ab obs obey ols 


or to invent other colours of uncertain effect and doubt- 
ful permanence? Or is it that the tones, left almost 
pure, as in illuminations, have preserved the same value 
as on the palette. I will not attempt to decide the 
question, but the fact, more marked here, is true of -all 
schools which preceded what is called the Renaissance 
of art. “The older a painting is, the better it is pre- 
served. A Van Eyck is fresher than a Van Dyck, an 
Andrea Mantegna than a Raphael, and an Antonio de 
Murano than a Tintoretto. Frescoes exhibit the same 
difference ; the most modern are the most damaged. 

I was prepared, in a way, by the masterpieces scat- 
tered through the galleries of France, Spain, England, 
Belgium, and Holland, for the marvels of Titian, Paolo 
Veronese, and ‘Tintoretto, nor did these great men dis- 
appoint me. ‘They faithfully kept all the promise of 
their genius, —but I expected that. On the other 
hand I experienced a delightful surprise on beholding 
the works, little known outside of Venice, of Giovanni 
and Gentile Bellini, Basaiti, Marco Roccone, Mansueti, 
Carpaccio, and others whose names would make a cata- 
logue were I to give them. It was like a new world. 
To find Venetian brilliancy in Gothic simplicity, the 
beauty of the South allied to the somewhat stiff forms 


182 


cob oe abe oe oh che oe ch be che cbecbectecte cleo cfc cb of ae ce 


i eae Los IVEY: 


of the North, Holbeins as richly coloured as if painted 
by Giorgione, paintings by Lucas Cranach as elegant 
as those of Raphael, was a wondrous piece of good 
fortune, and I felt it perhaps more than was proper ; 
for in my first burst of enthusiasm I was not far from 
considering the illustrious masters, the eternal glories 
of the Venetian School, as corrupters of taste and great 
men of the decadence, — somewhat like those Neo- 
Christian Germans, who drive Raphael from the para- 
dise of Catholic painters because, in their opinion, he 
is too sensual and too pagan. 

If I were writing a history of Venetian painting and 
not an account of a trip, I should begin by Nicolo 
Semiticolo, the oldest in the series, who goes back to 
1370, and I should come down chronologically to 
Francesco Zuccarelli, the last of them, who died in 
1790; but the gallery is not so arranged, and this sys- 
tem, which should be followed everywhere, would not 
agree with the real places occupied by the pictures, 
which are hung up simply in accordance with their 
size. 

The Academy of the Fine Arts, as is well known, 
occupies the old Scuola di Santa Maria della Carita. 


Of the original decoration there remains a very hand- 


183 


Sktbeeteeteetttetttt ttt tts 
TRAWEAIS. IN dag 


some ceiling in the first hall, which is the Salon Carre, 
the Tribuna of the Academy of Fine Arts. It is a cas- 
ket in which the finest gems are placed in the most 
favourable light ; the Koh-i-noors, the Grand Moguls, 
the Regents, and the Sancys of this rich Venetian mine, 
the veins of which have furnished such precious, pictur- 
esque gems. 

Each great master of Venice is represented here by 
an eminent example of his talent, the masterpiece of 
his masterpieces, —one of those supreme paintings in 
which genius and talent, inspiration and skill are mingled 
in proportions not easy to recover, a rare conjunction 
even in the life of sovereign artists. On that day the 
hand could do whatever the mind willed, as in that 
place of which Dante speaks, “‘ where one can what 
one wills.” 

Basaiti’s “ Calling of the Sons of Zebedee ” has 
many of the characteristics of the German School in 
the artlessness of the details, in the somewhat gray 
softness of tone, and in a certain melancholy unusual 
in the Italian School. The Nuremberg master would 
not disavow the landscape, at once fantastic and real, 
the Gothic castles with their pepper-pot turrets, their 
drawbridges and barbicans on the banks of the Lake 


184 


shook oh ok ok oh deh oh che chee cbechecbecbecb hecho che ack 
TE PRG Buoys 


of Tiberias, and a Chioggia or Murazzi fisherman 
would have no fault to find with the Péote and the nets 
rendered so simply and faithfully. The Christ is 
earnest and suave; the faces of the two apostles who 
are going to give up the catching of fish for the catch- 
ing of men breathe the liveliest faith. 

A stop must be made also before the “ Saint Francis 
receiving the Stigmata,” by Francesco Beccarucci di 
Conegliano, which is very fine. The painting is 
divided into two parts. In the upper is seen the saint 
holding out his hands for the divine imprints, a glorious 
resemblance with the Saviour which he has earned 
through his devotion. In the lower part is a crowd of 
saints and blessed, for the most part belonging to the 
order of Saint Francis, and rejoicing in the miracle. 
It contains beautiful ascetic heads; it is filled with 
deep religious feeling, and is perfect though somewhat 
dry in execution. When these old paintings, apparently 
cold and constrained, are looked at attentively, they 
become animated little by little, and finally exhibit ex- 
traordinary vivacity; yet they are marked neither by 
much knowledge of anatomy nor by much muscular or 
fleshy development. ‘The figures, embarrassed, look 


like timid people who wish to speak to you and dare 


185 


TRAVELS TN St pA Lay. 


not, and are turning over the best way to express what 
they feel. Their gestures are often awkward, but their 
faces are so kindly, so sweet, so childishly sincere, that 
you understand their half-spoken words, and they remain 
forever in your memory. It is because, under their 
awkward appearance, they possess a small thing which 
is lacking in masterpieces of technical skill, —a soul. 

I own frankly that I have a horror of the Bas- 
sanos. heir everlasting paintings of animals turned 
out from their factory and scattered throughout Europe, 
wretched shoddy work reproduced mechanically, more 
than justify my aversion; but I am bound to confess 
that the ‘ Resurrection of Lazarus” by Leandro 
Bassano is worth a good deal more than the en- 
trances and exits from the Ark, the pastorals and 
the rustic parks with cattle and sheep and a bending 
woman in a red skirt, which drive to despair every 
visitor to picture galleries. 

Let me mention also the “ Wedding of Cana” by 
Padovanino, a large, fine composition, broad and cor- 
rect in execution, a painting praiseworthy in every 
respect, and which anywhere else would be accounted 
a masterpiece; and let me come to a curious paint- 


ing by Paris Bordone, which represents a gondolier 


186 


debe bbb bob bbc beh bdo oh beet 


Te ove CFO UFO OFS CTS Sie aie we whe 


TEL Be ae A Tb Es Miecy 
restoring the ring of Saint Mark to the Doge. The 


moment chosen is that at which the gondolier is 
kneeling before the Doge. The composition is very 
picturesque. There is a great line, in perspective, 
of heads of senators, dark or bearded, most lordly in 
character; spectators are crowding on the steps in 
skilfully contrasted groups, while the beautiful Vene- 
tian costume is seen in all its splendour. As _ in 
nearly all the paintings of this school, architécture 
has a large place in the picture. Beautiful porticos 
in the style of Palladio, filled with people coming and 
going, form the background. This painting has the 
peculiarity, rather infrequent in the Italian school, — 
which is mostly occupied in reproducing religious or 
mythological subjects, of representing a popular 
legend, a scene of manners, a romantic subject, in a 
word, such as Delacroix or Louis Boulanger might 
have chosen and treated in accordance with their talent. 
This gives it a characteristic appearance and a per- 
sonal attractiveness. 

The pearl of the Museum at Madrid is a Raphael ; 
the gem of the Museum at Venice is a Titian, a mar- 
vellous painting, long forgotten and then recovered, 


for Venice possessed this masterpiece unawares for 


187 


Sebbbttttttttetttt ett tte 
BRAS R TS SO. IN aan 
many a year. Relegated to an old and little fre- 
quented church, it had disappeared under the slow 
accumulation of dust and cobwebs; the subject it- 
self could scarcely be made out. One day an ex- 
pert connoisseur, Count Cicognara, was struck with 
the appearance of the darkened figures, and suspect- 
ing the hand of the master under the marks of neglect 
and wretchedness, rubbed a corner of the canvas. 
The noble painting, preserved intact under the layer 
of dust like Pompeii under its mantle of ashes, ap- 
peared so youthful and so fresh that the Count was 
certain that he had come across a work by a great 
master, — an unknown masterpiece. He managed to 
master his feelings and proposed to the priest to ex- 
change that huge, uncared-for painting for a fine, 
brand-new, clean, shining picture handsomely framed, 
which would do honour to the church and please the 
faithful. The priest joyfully accepted, smiling to 
himself at the eccentricity of the Count, who was 
giving a new picture for an old one and did not ask 
something into the bargain. 
Cleansed from the filth which soiled it, Titian’s 
« Assumption ” appeared radiant. It is one of the 


largest paintings by the master, and the one in which 


188 


theo heh che he che dh ch ch cbecbe beaded abe dheche ech oh do 


TEE eae pelo TOMY, 


he has reached the highest point. “The composition 
is balanced and distributed with infinite art. The 
upper portion, which is arched, represents Paradise, 
—the Glory, to use the ascetic Spanish expression. 
Groups of angels confounded and disappearing in a 
flood of light to incalculable depths, like sparkling 
stars against flame, brilliant gleams of eternal light, 
form a halo around God the Father, who issues from 
the depths of the Infinite with the motion of a soar- 
ing eagle, accompanied by an archangel and a seraph 
upholding the crown and the nimbus. This figure 
of Jehovah, seen head and body strongly foreshortened 
horizontally, like a divine bird, with a mass of 
flying drapery outspread like wings, amazes by its 
sublime boldness. If it be possible for a human 
brush to clothe the Deity in a human figure, un- 
doubtedly ‘Titian has succeeded in doing so. Almighty 
power, eternal youth shine on the white-bearded face. 
Since the Olympic Jupiter of Phidias, never has the Lord 
of Heaven and Earth been more worthily represented. 

The centre of the picture is occupied by the Vir- 
gin Mary, who is raised, or rather surrounded, by a 
band of angels and of souls of the blessed. She needs 


no help to ascend to heaven. She rises through the 


189 


LEDELALDLAALALLALALALL ELS 
gabe Jib LN eee 


upspringing of her robust faith, the purity of her soul, 
lighter than the most luminous ether. ‘There is posi- 
tively in that figure an incredible power of ascen- 
sion; and yet to attain that effect, Titian did not 
have recourse to slender form, to clinging draperies, 
to transparent colour. His Madonna is a very real, 
a very living woman, of a beauty as solid as that of 
the Venus of Milo or the Venus of the Tribuna at 
Florence; full, rich draperies with numerous folds 
float around her; and yet nothing is more celestially 
beautiful than that tall, strong figure with its rose- 
coloured tunic and its azure mantle. In spite of the 
mighty voluptuousness of the body, the glance shines 
with the purest virginity. 

In the lower part of the painting the Apostles are 
grouped in various skilfully contrasted attitudes of 
ecstasy and surprise. [wo or three small angels, 
who connect them with the middle portion of the 
composition, seem to be explaining the miracle. The 
heads of the Apostles, of various ages and characters, 
are painted with surprising vigour and lifelike reality. 
The draperies have the breadth and fulness character- 
istic of Titian, who was at once the richest and the 


simplest of painters. 


190 


he abe obs ahs ale obs ole obs obs abe cle che obs abe ole os obs ells os ole eb obs of ob 
Gla Bae oe) Td Vie 


As I looked at that Virgin and compared it in my 
mind with other Virgins by different masters, I re- 
flected how marvellous, how ever new a thing is art. 
The number of variations which Catholic painters 
have made upon this theme of the Madonna, without 
ever exhausting it, astounds and confounds the im- 
agination ; but when one reflects upon it, one under- 
stands that under the conventional type each painter 
has reproduced at one and the same time his dream of 
love and the incarnation of his own talent. 

Thanks to the dusty layer which covered it for so 
many years, the “ Assumption”’ shines with youthful 
brilliancy. The centuries stayed their steps for it, 
and we enjoy the supreme delight of seeing a paint- 
ing by Titian as it came from his palette. 

Opposite Titian’s “ Assumption” has been placed 
Tintoretto’s “ Saint Mark delivering a Slave,” as the 
most robust picture and the one best fitted to form a 
pendant to so splendid a masterpiece. Tintoretto is 
the king of violent painters. He has incredible fury 
in composition, vigour in execution, and boldness in 
foreshortening, and the “Saint Mark” may pass for 
one of his fiercest and most audacious paintings. The 


subject is the patron saint of Venice coming to the 


IgI 


beteettttteetettttttttes 
TeRAWE DES TN. i TAS 


aid of a poor slave, whom a barbarous master tor- 
ments and tortures because of the obstinate devotion 
of the poor fellow to the saint. ‘The slave is stretched 
on the ground on a cross, surrounded by busy tor- 
turers who are making a vain effort to fasten him to 
the infamous tree. The nails turn back, the mallets 
break, the axes fly in pieces. More merciful than 
men, the instruments of torture are blunted in the 
hands of the torturers;. the spectators look at each 
other and whisper in astonishment, the judge bends 
over the tribunal to see why his orders are not exe- 
cuted; while Saint Mark, in one of the most violent 
foreshortenings a painter ever risked, dives from 
heaven to earth, without clouds, wings, cherubs, with- 
out any of the aerostatic means usually employed in 
sacred pictures, as he comes to deliver the man who 
believes in him. This vigorous figure, with the 
muscles of an athlete and the proportions of a colos- 
sus, flying through the air like a rock hurled by a 
catapult, produces the strangest effect. The draw- 
ing is so marvellous that the massive saint sustains 
himself and does not fall. It is a downright tour de 
Jorce. If to this be added that the picture is so 


_ strong in tone, so appropriate in its contrasts of light 


1g2 


— — Se 


trtrtrtoebbbbttebtettes 
TLE Been DE My: 


and shadow, so vigorous in detail, so harsh and 
violent in touch that the most intense Caravaggios 
and Spagnolettis, if placed by the side of it would 
look like rosewater, some idea may be had of a 
painting which, in spite of some barbarisms, still pre- 
serves in its accessories the architectural, abundant 
and sumptuous aspect peculiar to the Venetian school. 

There are also in the same room an ‘ Adam and 
Eve” and an “ Abel and Cain” by the same painter ; 
two magnificent paintings worked out like studies, 
which are perhaps the most perfect piece of work, so 
far as execution goes, produced by him. Against a 
background of soft, mysterious green, the distant foli- 
age of Eden,— or rather, the wall of the studio, — 
stand out two superb bodies, of a brilliantly warm 
white, of living carnation, powerfully real. It is prob- 
able that Eve holds out to Adam the fatal apple, 
which justifies the placing of two nude personages in the 
open air; but no matter, for never did two more beau- 
tiful bodies, never did whiter and softer flesh come to 
life under the brush of a colourist. Tintoretto, who 
had written on the wall, “The drawing of Michael 
Angelo and the colouring of Titian,” has in this paint- 


ing carried out at least one half of his programme. 


13 193 


The companion painting of “ Abel and Cain” 
breathes all the savage fury that one expects from such 
a subject and such a painter. Death, the consequence 
of the fall of our first parents, enters on the young 
earth in a formidable shadow, wherein are rolling the 
murderer and his victim. In one corner of the paint- 
ing is a horrible detail: the head of a sheep cut off and 
bleeding. Is it the victim offered up by Abel, or a 
symbol that innocent animals are also to bear the 
penalty of Eve’s curiosity ? 

Bonifazzio is an admirable artist. His ‘ Wicked 
Rich Man” is a thoroughly Venetian painting. It 
lacks neither the handsome women with their hair 
rolled up in tresses, with strings of pearls, dresses of 
velvet and brocade, nor the splendid lords in gallant and 
courteous attitudes, the musicians, pages, negroes, nor 
the damask tablecloth richly covered with plate of gold 
and silver, the dogs playing on the mosaic pavement, and 
this time smelling at the rags of Lazarus with the mis- 
trust of well-bred animals, nor the terraces with balus- 
trades on which the wine is cooling in antique craters, 
nor the white columns between which the sky shines 
out deeply blue; only, Paolo Veronese’s silvery gray 


here has an amber tint; the silver is gilded. Bonifaz- 


194 


te 


abe ol abe ab cls ele als ebro aby cb cdo abe abe cb abe abo che ef abe ee abe eho ole 


THE Pre 1) Ee VIEY: 


zio, who painted portraits, gave to his heads something 
more intimate than did the author of the four great 
feasts and of the ceilings of the Palace of the Doges, 
accustomed as he was to look at subjects from the 
decorative point of view. The faces in Bonifazzio’s 
painting, studied and individually characteristic, posi- 
tively recall the patrician types of Venice, which so 
often posed to the artist. The anachronism of the 
costumes shows that Lazarus is but a mere pretext, 
and that the real subject of the painting is a banquet of 
lords with courtesans, their mistresses, in one of those 
beautiful palaces which plunge their marble feet into 
the waters of the Grand Canal. 

Let us not pass too quickly before these ‘* Apostles,” 
of such fine port, so rich in colour, and so religiously 
grave, as is not always the case in the Venetian school, 
especially in the second half of the sixteenth century, 
when the pagan ideas of the Renaissance made their 
way into art and developed the sensualist tendencies of 
these splendid masters. The Academy of the Fine Arts 
possesses a great number of Bonifazzio’s works. In 
this room alone, besides the “« Wicked Rich Man ” and 
the “ Apostles,” there is an “¢ Adoration of the Magi,” 
“Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery,” “Saint 


195 


~ RAVELS “IN See 


Jerome and Saint Catharine,” “ Saint Mark,” ‘ Jesus 
Enthroned surrounded by Saints,’’ —all of them paint- 
ings of the highest merit, which stand being placed 
in company with those of ‘Titian, Tintoretto, and 
Paolo Veronese. 

A great painter, little known in France, is Rocco 
Marconi, an artist whose style is pure and whose feel- 
ing is deep. He is a sort of Italian Albert Direr, less 
fantastic and chimerical than the German, but with a 
sort of archaic calm in his manner which makes him 
appear older than his contemporaries, as does Ingres 
among Delacroix, Decamps, Couture, Muller, and 
Diaz. The heads in his “ Christ between Saint John 
and Saint Paul”? have much character and nobility, 
the folds of the draperies are very tasteful, and the 
group in its firm colour stands out well against the 
sky dappled with clouds. 

Here on the wall is a whole line of the old Vene- 
tians that I spoke of as we entered the Academy of the 
Fine Arts, suave, pure, ingenuous, gentle, and charm- 
ing. Giovanni Bellini, Cima da Conegliano, and Vit- 
torio Carpaccio each offer us the same subject, one 
which was sufficient for the whole of the Middle Ages 


and gave birth to thousands of masterpieces, — the 


196 


tebebbbetteeeebeteedttes 
THE ACADEMY 


Madonna and Child Enthroned, surrounded by saints, 
usually the patrons of the giver; a custom which 
makes pedants complain of anachronism under the 
pretext that it is not natural that Saint Francis of 
Assisi, Saint Sebastian, and Saint Catharine, or any other 
saint, should happen to be in the same frame as the 
Blessed Virgin, and that the costumes of the Middle 
Ages should be mingled with the draperies of antiquity. 
These critics have failed to understand that to a living 
faith there is no such thing as time or place, and that 
nothing is more touching than the bringing together of 
the idol and the devotee; a genuine bringing together, 
for the Madonna was then a living, contemporary, 
actual being, she entered into every one’s life, she was 
the ideal of all timid lovers, the mother of all those 
who sorrowed; she was not relegated to the very con- 
fines of heaven, as incredulous ages, under pretext of 
respect, do with their gods. Men lived on a familiar 
footing with her, confided their griefs and their hopes 
to her, and no one would have been surprised to see her 
appear in the street in company with a monk, a cardinal, 
a nun, or any other holy personage. The more readily, 
therefore, did one allow in a painting a combination 


which shocks purists, but which is really deeply Catholic. 
ew 


checbe cade oh oe bb ote ce ctecte cde ache ce bee ah ook 


WO OFS are OFS OFS WO WTO OT ee es 


TOR AWN TSIIS:. TN. Ae 


ba) 4 
ae 


For my part I am very fond of these thrones and 
baldacchinos so preciously and delicately ornamented, 
of these Madonnas holding their Child upon their laps, 
with their simple golden nimbus, as if colour were not 
brilliant enough for them, of these little angels playing 
on the viol, the rebec, or the angelica. Yes, in spite 
of my love for pagan art, I love also these artless 
Gothic painters; these Fathers of the Church carrying 
great missals under their arms, wearing the cardinal’s 
beretta, Saint George in his knightly armour, Saint 
Sebastian chastely nude, a sort of Christian Apollo, 
who, instead of shooting arrows, is pierced by them; 
the priests, the saints, and the monks in beautiful 
figured dalmatics and white or black gowns with many 
small folds; these young virgins leaning on a wheel and 
holding a palm, maids of honour of the Celestial 
Queen; all the loving and devout suite which humbly 
groups itself at the foot of the representation of the. 
apotheosis,of the Virgin Mother. It seems to me that 
this somewhat hieratic arrangement better fulfils the 
requirements of the church painting properly under- 
stood than compositions worked out from the realistic 
point of view. ‘There is in this sort of composition a 


sacred rhythm which must strike the eye of the faithful. 


198 


whe oso obs ols abl abe abe obs oe be cree ob strobe ofa ob cle abe of abe ol 


ore one =< oS owe Fe WTO VFO OTe TO 


Beye A DE MEY 


The aspect of the image itself, so necessary in devo- 
tional subjects, in my opinion, is preserved, and art is 
in no wise the loser, for if individuality is bounded on 
the one hand, it is entirely free on the other. Each 
artist marks his individuality in the execution of the 
work, and these paintings, formed of the same ele- 
ments, are perhaps the most personal of all. The 
feathered musicians of Carpaccio are unlike those of 
Giovanni Bellini, although they are tuning their guitars 
at the feet of the Virgin on the steps of an almost 
identical baldacchino. The winged virtuosi of Car- 
paccio are more elegant, have a more youthful grace; 
they look like pages of a noble house. ‘Those of 
Giovanni Bellini are more artless, childish, babyish ; 
they perform their music with the zeal of country 
choristers watched by their priest. All of them are 
charming, but their gracefulness is different and marked 
by the character of the painter. 

The “ Holy Family ” of Paolo Veronese is composed 
in the rich and bountiful taste so familiar to that 
painter. Ofcourse the amateurs of absolute truth will 
not find here the humble interior of the poor carpenter. 
The column of rose Verona brocatella, the splendid 


figured curtain, the skilfully broken folds of which 
199 


teebbettetettttttttceddde 
DRAW BS) OUN ePAL AY 


form the background of the painting, betoken a princely 
home, but the “ Holy Family” is rather an apotheosis 
than a realistic representation of Joseph’s humble 
household. ‘The presence of Saint Francis offering 
a palm, of the priest in his cloak, of the saint 
with her golden hair tressed on the back of her 
head, the regal seat on which is enthroned the divine 
Mother presenting her Child to worship, suffice to 
prove this. 

In the second room there is an immense painting, 
“The Feast at the House of Levi,” one of the four 
great banquet-pieces by Paolo Veronese. “The Louvre 


bP] 


possesses two of them, the “‘ Wedding at Cana,” and 
the “Supper at the House of the Magdalen.” They 
are of the same size as the one at Venice. All have 
the same broad, rich, easy composition, the same silvery 
brilliancy, the same air of festivity and joy; in all are 
seen those dark-complexioned men with their rich dal- 
matics of brocade, the fair women covered with pearls, 
the negro slaves offering dishes and ewers, the children 
playing on the steps of balustraded stairs with great 
white greyhounds; the columns, the marble statues ; 
the beautiful, bright turquoise-blue sky which fairly 


‘deceives when, on drawing back, one looks at it 


200 


she ob of che che che ek bh hob bebe cbc ecb ob bot 
THE ACADEMY 


framed in by the door of the next room like a view in 
a panorama. Paolo Veronese is perhaps, without ex- 
cepting Titian, Rubens, and Rembrandt, the greatest 
master of colour that ever lived. He has not the 
yellow tone of Titian nor the red tone of Rubens, nor 
the dark tone of Rembrandt. He paints luminously, 
with amazing accuracy; no one understood better 
than he did the relation of tones and their relative 
values. He obtains by juxtaposition tints of exquisite 
freshness which apart would seem gray and earthy. 
No one possesses to the same degree the bloom and 
flower of light. 

The composition of the ‘“ Annunciation” by the 
same painter is curious. The Virgin Mary, kneeling 
at one end of a long canvas, the central part of which 
-is filled in by elegant architecture, awaits modestly the 
arrival of the Angel, relegated to the other end of the 
painting and which seems to be wafted towards her 
on its open wings with its angelic salutation. ‘This 
arrangement, contrary to the rule which places in the 
centre of a canvas the group upon which attention is 
directed, is a brilliant caprice which would have failed 
had it been attempted by any other than Paolo 


Veronese. 


201 


The Academy possesses an inestimable treasure, the 
last painting done by Titian, that patriarch of his art, 
who lived through the century and whom the plague 
surprised still at work at the age of ninety-nine. ‘The 
painting, of a grave and melancholy aspect, the funeral 
subject of which seems to be a presentiment, represents 
a “Deposition from the Cross.” The sky is dark, 
a livid light illuminates the body piously upborne by 
Joseph of Arimathea and Mary Magdalen. They are 
both sad and downcast, and seem by their hopeless 
attitudes to despair of the resurrection of the Master. 
They are evidently wondering with secret anxiety 
whether that body anointed with spices and ointments 
which they are going to place within the sepulchre will 
ever emerge from it. And indeed, never did Titian 
paint so thoroughly dead a body. ‘There is not a drop 
of blood left under the greenish skin and in the bluish 
veins; life has withdrawn from them forever. The 
‘‘Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane” in Saint 
Paul’s, the ‘“ Pieta”’ in Saint Denis-du-Saint-Sacra- 
ment, by Eugéne Delacroix, alone can give an idea of 
the sinister and painful picture in which for the first 
time the great Venetian lost his unchanging serenity. 


The shadow of approaching death seems to combat the 


202 


she chs abe a fe oh ch oe oh abe oe cdecbe cbr cbe adeeb cde oe che be obec 
hhh Evrae AD E Miy 


light of the painter who always had sunshine on his 
palette, and casts a twilight chill over the painting. 
The hand of the artist stopped in death before he had 
finished his task, as is testified by the inscription in 
black letters in the corner of the canvas: ‘The 
work which Titian left unfinished, Palma respectfully 
completed and offered to God.” This noble, touching, 
and religious inscription turns the painting into a 
monument. Certainly Palma, himself a great painter, 
must have approached tremblingly the master’s work, 
and his brush, clever as it was, must doubtless have 
hesitated and wavered many a time as it was laid on 
the touch of Titian. 

If the Academy possesses the Omega of the 
painter’s life, the Alpha is also found there in the shape 
of a great picture, the subject of which is the ‘ Presen- 
tation of Mary in the Temple.” ‘This work was 
painted by Titian when almost a child; tradition says 
at the age of fourteen, which seems to me rather pre- 
cocious in view of the beauty of the work. Bringing 
the matter down to likelihood, “ The Presentation of 
Mary ” assuredly goes back to the painter’s extreme 
youth, All the qualities of the artist are seen in this 


juvenile work; they were developed more fully later, 


203 


abe obs ol ole obs abe os alls abe alle ole abn cbs ofle ols obe ole obs ole cbr cbr ole ce oe 


THR AWEFRLISS DN. AIC Aa 

but they exist already very visibly. “Ihe splendour 
of the architecture, the grand port of the old men, 
the abundant and fine drawing of the draperies, the 
great effects of tone, the manly simplicity of execu- 
tion, —all these things reveal the master in the 
child. The luminous and bright colour, which the 
sunshine of mature age will gild with warmer reflec- 
tions, possesses already the virile solidity, the robust 
consistency which are the distinctive characteristics 
of ‘Titian. 

He is, in my opinion, the only wholly healthy artist 
who has appeared since the days of antiquity. He has 
the mighty and strong serenity of Phidias; there is 
nothing feverish, troubled, restless in him; the modern 
malady has not laid its hands upon him. He is beauti- 
ful, robust, and tranquil like a pagan artist of the finest 
epoch. His superb nature unfolds itself complacently 
in a warm azure, under a warm sun, and his colour 
recalls the beautiful antique marbles gilded by the 
brilliant light of Greece. There is no groping, no 
effort, no violence; he attains the ideal at the first 
attempt, without a thought. A calm, vivacious joy 
lights up his whole work. Only he does not seem to 


suspect the existence of death, save perhaps in his last 


204 


whe obs abe abs os obs als oe obs abs obs cbr clle obs ono ob ob ob ale ce obs oe alle 


wre ore ere ae ome wee ode 


PH Eee A DE MY 


painting. Without sensual ardour, without voluptuous 
intoxication, he exhibits to the gaze amid purple and 
gold, the beauty and the youth, all the amorous 
poetry of the feminine body, with the impassibility 
of a God exhibiting Eve to Adam. He sanctifies 
nudity by an expression of supreme repose, of ever 
fixed beauty, of the realisation of the absolute which 
makes the freest of the antique works so chaste. He 
alone has painted a woman who might, without appear 
ing poor and mean, lie down by the side of the resting 
woman on the Parthenon. 

Giorgione has painted an episode of the fisherman 
bringing to the Doge the ring of St. Mark. It is the 
battle between Saint George and Saint Theodore and 
the fiends. However much [ admire the warm, living, 
rich colour of Giorgione in his “ Pastoral Concert,” I 
confess I care very little for the painting in the Acad- 
emy of the Fine Arts at Venice. 

Rocco Marconi’s ** Descent from the Cross ”’ has all 
the serious qualities, all the unction of the Gothic 
masters, their tranquil symmetry, and a richness of 
tone and a bloom of colour which the great paintings 
in its vicinity do not diminish. ‘The dead Christ, 
recalling by His bloodless flesh the mat pallor of 


205 


cheb he ho he he cheb dochecbe shee cde oh cde 
ID RAG aE S) LIN ila AS Lae 


the Host, is sleeping softly on the Virgin’s breast 
supported by a Magdalen of tender and delicate 
beauty, whose splendid fair hair falls in a golden 
cascade down a magnificent dress of figured: damask 
of a rich, sombre purple like the ruby. Is it in the 
blood of the beloved heart that your dress has been 
dipped, O Magdalen, or in the drops falling from 
your own? 

Padovanino has a “ Virgin in Glory ” after the Span- 
ish manner, but I am not very much struck, in spite 
of the great talent displayed in it, by the vast, apoca- 
lyptic painting by Palma the younger, “The Tri- 
umph of Death.” Saint John, seated upon the rock 
at Patmos, gazes with upraised pen, ready to fix it on 
his parchment, at the formidable vision which is un- 
rolled before him: Justice and War ride upon sombre 
steeds, and Death, upon his great pale horse, cuts in 
the human harvest ears which fall in sheaves of bodies 
along the edges of the road. Except Tintoretto, who 
with his tawny colour and violent touch can represent 
terror and tragedy, these gloomy subjects are generally 
ill-suited to Venetian painters, whose happy tem- 
perament delights in the azure of the sea and of the 


sky, in the whiteness of marble and of flesh, in the 


206 


ob otek cbe oh oh hohe be be dec cece ch heed ede ob dock 
REA AY 1D) EB May 


gold of hair and brocade, and the brilliant patterns of 
flowers and stuffs. 

A very curious painting by Gentile Bellini is “ The 
Procession on the Piazza San Marco of the Relics pre- 
served by the Brotherhood of Saint John,” at the time 
when Jacopo Salis is making his vow to the Cross. 
No more complete collection of the costumes of the 
day can be imagined; the patient and minute touch of 
the artist has allowed no detail to escape him; nothing 
is sacrificed, everything is rendered with Gothic consci- 
entiousness. Every head must certainly be a portrait, 
and a portrait as accurate as a photograph, with the 
colouring in addition. ‘The appearance of the Piazza 
San Marco, such as it was then, is as true as an archi- 
tectural drawing. ‘The old Byzantine mosaics, which 
were restored later, adorn the portals of the old basilica, 
and —a point to be noted —the belfries are gilded all 
over, which was never really the case. But the bel- 
fries were to have been gilded, as a matter of fact. 
The Doge Loredan needed, to carry on the war, the 
sequins intended to pay for the gilding, and the plan 
was not carried out. There is no trace of it left save 
in the painting of Gentile Bellini, who had provision- 
ally gilded his Saint Mark. 


207 


Lekkehbekbbeheba bbb ett 
5 IN ITALY 


A certain miracle of a cross fallen into the water 
from the top of a bridge in Venice, the bridge of Saint 
Leon and Saint Laurent, greatly interested the painters 
of that day. The Academy contains no less than 
three important paintings of this curious subject, one 
by Lazzaro Sebastiano, one by Gentile Bellini, and a 
third by Giovanni Mansueti. ‘These paintings are 
most interesting, forming exceptions to the customary 
types of Italian painting, which turns in the narrow 
circle of devotional and mythological subjects and 
rarely touches the familiar scenes of real life. ‘The 
monks of various orders, the patricians, the common 
people who are jumping into the water, swimming and 
diving in order to find the holy crucifix fallen within 
the canal, exhibit the strangest appearance. On the 
banks is the crowd in prayer, watching the result of 
the search. ‘There is especially a line of ladies kneel- 
ing with clasped hands, covered with gems and pearls, 
in short-waisted dresses as in the time of the Empire, 
which exhibits a number of profiles set off one by the 
other with Gothic artlessness, and of extraordinary 
finish, beauty, elegance, and purity. In these paintings 
the old houses of Venice are seen, with their red walls, 


their windows with Lombard trefoils, their terraces 


208 


tebbbebbbbbbbbbbbbbb td 
DHE VAC AUD: FE MAY 


surmounted by posts, their wide-topped chimneys, the 
old bridges spanned by chains, and the gondolas of 
other days, which are not. the shape of modern ones. 
There is no /e/ze, but an awning stretched upon hoops, 
nor does any one of them have the sort of fiddle-head 
in polished iron which serves as a counterpoise to the 
rower placed at the poop. ‘They are also much less 
slender. 

Most elegant, most graceful, most juvenile is the 
series of paintings in which Vittorio Carpaccio has de- 
picted the life of Saint Ursula. Carpaccio possesses 
the ideal charm, the youthful grace which Raphael ex- 


> 


hibits in the “ Marriage of the Virgin,” one of the first 
and perhaps the most charming of his pictures. It is ~ 
impossible to fancy more artless turns of the head, 
more angelically coquettish attitudes. ‘There is espe- 
cially a young man with long hair, seen from behind, 
whose cape with a velvet collar is half slipping from 
his shoulder, who is so proudly, so youthfully, and so 
seductively beautiful that he looks like Praxiteles’ Cupid 
wearing a mediaeval costume, or, rather, like an angel 
to whom it has occurred to dress himself up as a Vene- 
tian magnifico. I am surprised that the name of Car- 


paccio is not better known. He possesses all the 


14 209 


tHhebbbtbbetetetdt dtd dteetese 
TO RAW HEMICS (ATEN ei A oa 


youthful purity and all the graceful charm of the first 
manner of the painter of Urbino, and in addition the 
wondrous Venetian colour, which no other school was 
able to equal. 

The Pinacoteca Contarini, the bequest of that lordly 
amateur of the arts who gave to the Museum his col- 
lection of arms, statues, vases, carved furniture, and 
other precious things, contains choice specimens of the 
Venetian and other schools. I will mention the “ Pil- 
grims of Emmats,’’ by Marco Marzali, painted with 
almost German dry minuteness; Andrea Cardegli’s 
“Child Jesus, Saint John, and Saint Catharine,” whose 
fair heads stand out against the green landscape back- 
ground seen through a window; a “ Virgin and Child 
with the Young Saint John,” by Giovanni Battista 
Cima, somewhat dry and cutting too harshly against a 
background of blue mountains ; a “ Marriage of Saint 
Catharine,” and a “ Madonna and Child” by Francesco 
da Fiesolo, very sweet, pretty, and fresh, charming in its 
morbidezza. The triptych of “ Fortune,” by Giovanni 
Bellini is remarkable for its allegorical inventions. In 
the centre panel a nude woman stands upon an altar, 
accompanied by angels or Cupids playing on the drum ; 


on the side panels a nude youth, crowned, a cloak on 


210 


cede be che oh ob che che hehe ce cbecbobedbcbe obeche oe cbe ok ob det 
THE ACADEMY 


his shoulder, offers presents to a warrior who avoids 
him ; a woman holding a ball, her hair tressed into the 
shape of a helmet, stands in a boat, while Cupids play 
amid the waves like Tritons. 

Callot’s etchings please me much more than his 
paintings, the authenticity of which is more or less 
doubtful. There is in the Pinacoteca Contarini a 
“Fair”? by the Nancy engraver, swarming with Bohe- 
mians, charlatans, beggars, lansknechts, stealing, play- 
ing tricks, begging, drinking, gambling, —a view of 
that picaresque world which he knew so well; but 
the artist is not as skilful with the brush as with 
the graver. 

Let me close with the gem, the pearl, the star of 
this museum, — a “ Madonna and the Child Jesus” by 
Giovanni Bellini. ‘The subject is worn out, has been 
treated a thousand times, and yet it blooms with eternal 
youth under the brush of the old master. What does 
it consist of ? A woman with a child on her knees, — 
but what a woman! Her face pursues you like a 
dream, and once you have seen it you never forget it. 
It is of impossible beauty, and yet strangely true; it is 
of immaculate virginity and penetrating voluptuousness ; 


supreme disdain in infinite sweetness. I seemed, as I 


211 


chee ob che ek che cde de cbecbe becdech ch che dheobe ch chee 
TR AVCR RAS” PNY VV RATE 


beheld that painting, to be looking at the incarnation 
of my secret dreams surprised in my soul by the artist. 
Every day I spent an hour in mute worship at the feet 
of the celestial ideal, and never could I have left Venice, 
if a young French painter, taking pity on me, had not 


made me a copy of that beloved head. 


22 


debbobck bbb cb babes cheb oh cet 
Ue eee IN’ AT Y 


LLEAAEEAL EASELS LLtt 


che steale abe ob 


ib 


THE STREETS—THE EMPEROR’S 
FETE DAY 


HE streets of Venice are rarely mentioned, 
although they exist in great numbers, and 


writers describe the quaintness of the canals 


and gondolas alone. The absence of horses and car- 
riages gives to Venetian streets a peculiar appearance. 
By their narrowness they resemble the streets of Orien- 
tal cities. As the area of the islands is limited, and the 
houses generally very high, the narrow lanes which 
separate them look like saw-cuts in enormous blocks of 
stone. Certain ca//es in Granada and certain London 
alleys very closely approximate them. 

The Frezzaria is one of the most animated streets of 
the city. Jt is quite six to eight feet wide, and is 
therefore analogous to the Rue de la Paix in Paris. It 
is in this street chiefly that are to be found the gold- 
smiths who manufacture those delicate little golden 
chains as tenuous as hairs, which are called jaserons, 


and which are one of the characteristic curiosities of 


213 


RAEDLAELLELLLAELALA LL ALLL SASL 
RUA VEE) LNG tee 


J 


Venice. With the exception of these chains and a few 
rough gems set in silver for sale to country people, 
which an artist may think picturesque, these shops have 
nothing remarkable. ‘The fruiterers’ shops have splen- 
did stalls. “Ihe heaps of blooming peaches, the quan- 
tities of golden, amber-coloured, transparent grapes 
coloured with the richest tints, shining like gems, and 
the grains of which, strung in the form of necklaces 
and bracelets, would admirably adorn the neck and 
arms of some antique Mznad, are beautifully fresh and 
admirably grouped. “The tomatoes mingle their brilliant 
scarlet with the golden tints and the watermelon shows 
its rosy pulp through the cleft in its green skin. Al! 
these lovely fruits, brightly lighted by gas-jets, show 
rarely well against the vine leaves upon which they are 
laid. It is impossible to regale one’s eyes more agree- 
ably, and often, without being hungry, I purchased 
peaches and grapes through sheer love of colour. I 
recall also certain fishmongers’ stalls covered with little 
fishes so white, so silvery, so pearly, that I felt like 
swallowing them raw, after the manner of the ichthy- 
ophagists of the Southern seas, for fear of spoiling their 
tints. I could understand, on seeing them, the barbar- 


ous custom of ancient banquets, which consisted in 


214 


abe obs ols ols obs abe obs obs abe abe oe obo cbe che obs che ohn of che ole obs of oboe 
THE EMPEROR’S FETE DAY 


watching the death of murenas in crystal vases in order 
to enjoy the opal tints which they assumed in their 
death throes. 

In the evening these streets are extremely animated 
and brilliant. The stalls are illuminated @ giorno, and 
the narrowness of the street prevents the light being 
scattered. “Ihe cook shops and the pastry shops, the 
osteria, the taverns, the numerous, cafés, bloom and 
blaze; there is a constant going and coming of people. 
Every shop, without a single exception, has its minia- 
ture chapel adorned with a Madonna, in front of which 
are placed lighted lamps or tapers and pots of artificial 
or natural flowers. Sometimes it is a statuette in col- 
oured plaster, sometimes a smoky painting, sometimes 
a Greek image with a Byzantine gold background, or 
a simple modern engraving. “The Madonna replaces 
in devout Italy the Lares of antiquity. ‘This form of 
the worship of the Virgin, so touching and poetic, has 
but few, if any, dissenters in Venice, and the followers 
of Voltaire would, so far, be ill-satisfied with the progress 
of enlightenment in the ancient city of the Doges. At 
nearly every street-corner, at nearly every descent of a 
bridge, there is in a niche, behind a grating or a glass 


pane, a Madonna on an altar adorned with wreaths of 


215 


bbobbbbbebttbebbbtbte tee 
TaR AWE TSS (PNA 


elder pith, necklaces of glass beads, paper flowers, 
dresses of silver lace, and all the pious rags with which 
the artless Southern faith overloads with childish 
coquetry the objects of its adoration. Candles and 
lamps continually burn before these altars covered 
with ex-votos, silver hearts, wax legs, women’s 
breasts, paintings of shipwrecks seamed by lightnings, 
of burned houses, and other catastrophes, in which 
the wonder-working Virgin invariably turns up at 
the right moment. Near these chapels there is 
always some old woman praying, some young girl 
on her knees, some sailor making a vow or fulfilling 
it, and also at times people whose dress indicates 
that they belong to a class which with us does not 
possess so much faith, and leaves the religion of 
Christ to the common people and to servants. 
Contrary to preconceived ideas, I found Italy more 
devout than Spain. 

One of these chapels, near the Ponte della Paglia 
on the Riva degli Schiavoni, has always a large number 
of worshippers, either because it happens to be upon a 
frequented street, or because it possesses some peculiar 
privilege or immunity. ‘There are also every here and 


there alms-boxes for the benefit of souls in Purgatory. 


216 


abe che abs obo obs of abe obs abe abe cle cba che obs of obs obs ofp oe ole ce of ofp of 
ite BMP RORY S UP EADE DAY 


The small coins dropped into them pay for masses for 
the poor forgotten dead. 

Next to the Frezzaria, the street which leads from 
the Campo San Moisé to the Campo de Santa Maria 
Zobenigo is one of those which offer to a stranger 
the greatest number of points worthy of observation. 
Many lanes open into it as into an artery, for it con- 
nects the banks of the Grand Canal with the Piazza 
San Marco. The shops remain open longer than else- 
where, and as it is nearly straight, forestier7 traverse it 
without being afraid of losing their way; avery easy 
thing to do in Venice, the maze of streets, complicated 
by canals and blind alleys, being so perplexing that it has 
been found necessary to mark by a succession of stones, 
on which are cut arrows indicating the way, the road 
from the Piazza to the railway station, situated at the 
other end of the city, near the Church degli Scalzi. 

How often have I enjoyed losing myself at night in 
that labyrinth out of which a Venetian alone can find his 
way! After having followed a score of streets, traversed 
some thirty lanes, crossed ten canals, ascended and de- 
scended as many bridges, plunged at hazard into sotto- 
portict, I have found myself just where I started from. 


These walks, for which I chose moonlight nights, en- 


217 


Pa 


abate ab boobs abe abo abe arable abe cece ook cl babe oe oe oo ob 


Cre ae ote OF vie ore owe 


TORAW EES 2 DINGS as ie 


abled me to see Venice in its secret aspect, and from 
numerous picturesque and unexpected points of view. 

Sometimes I came upon a great palace half in ruins, 
faintly showing in the shadows, thanks to a silvery 
beam; the panes left in its broken windows gleaming 
suddenly like scales or mirrors; now a bridge tracing 
its black arch against a stretch of bluish water over 
which floated a light mist; farther on a trail of red fire, 
falling from a lighted house upon the oily darkness of 
a sleeping canal; at other times a deserted square on 
which stood out quaintly the top of a church covered 
with statues which in the obscurity looked like spectres ; 
or else a tavern where were gesticulating like demons 
gondoliers and facchini, their shadows projected upon 
the window; or else a half-opened water-gate through 
which a mysterious figure sprang into a gondola. 

Once I thus reached a really sinister lane behind the 
Grand Canal. The high houses, originally covered 
with the red tint which is usually found upon old 
Venetian buildings, had a fierce and truculent aspect. 
Rain, damp, neglect, and the absence of light at the 
bottom of this narrow cut had little by little killed the 
colour of the facades and made the wash run. A faint 


reddish tint still marked the walls and looked like 


218 


the fe che che che he he be oh abe cece ecto cheb che oe elece ol oboe 


wre TO CS IS WHE WTS OTD 


THE EMPEROR’S FETE DAY 


blood insufficiently cleansed off after the commission of 
acrime. Oppression, chilliness, terror, stole out from 
these sanguinolent walls; a sickly odour of saltpetre 
and well water, a mouldy smell reminiscent of prisons, 
cloisters, and cellars, seized me as [ entered it. At 
the blind windows there was no gleam of light, no 
appearance of life. The low doors, studded with rusty 
nails, their iron knockers worn by time, seemed inca- 
pable of ever opening. Nettles and wall plants grew 
on the thresholds and seemed not to have been trodden 
for a long time back by any human foot. A lean, 
black dog which sprang suddenly out of the shadow 
like a jack-in-the-box, began to bark furiously and 
plaintively at the sight of me, as if it were unaccus- 
tomed to meet men. It followed me for a short time, 
tracing around me windings after the fashion of the 
poodle that accompanied Faust and Wagner on their 
walk; but looking at it fixedly, I said to it in Goethe’s 
words: “ Unclean animal, in vain you bark and ope 
your mouth. You shall never swallow my monad.” 
These words seemed to astonish it, and seeing itself 
discovered, it disappeared, uttering a lamentable howl. 
Was it a dog ora larva? This is a point which I pru- 


dently prefer to leave undecided. 


210 


check eae be che oh be che gh ected che cece ache echoed ob chat 


wre ee OF ote 


PSR AMEE S27) DN Da 


I greatly regret that I do not possess Hoffmann’s 
talent to turn that sinister street into the scene of a 
terrifying and strange tale, such as “ The Deserted 
House,” or “The Eve of Saint Sylvester,” in which 
alchemists fight over a manikin, and hurl their micro- 
scopes at each other in a whirlwind of monstrous 
visions. ‘Ihe dark windows were meant to frame in 
the bald, wrinkled, grimacing heads, decomposed by a 
continuous metamorphosis, of Master Tabracchio, Spal- 
lanzani, Leuwenhoeck, Swammerdam, of Counsellor 
Tusman and Recorder Lindhorst. If (Gozzi, the 
author of the “ Contratempi,” who believed himself the 
victim of the hatred of wizards and hobgoblins whose 
tricks he had discovered and whose secrets he had told 
in his fairy pieces, ever traversed this solitary lane, he 
must have met with some of the amazing misadven- 
tures reserved, apparently, for the poet of “ Turandot,” 
“The Love of the Three Orange Trees,” and the 
“ Blue Monster.” But Gozzi, who felt the invisible 
world, must certainly have always avoided Barristers’ 
Street at the hour of twilight. 

On returning from one of these fantastic trips, 
during which the city had struck me as being more 


deserted than usual, I went to bed feeling rather mel- 


220 


FRO OFS CHS OFS Oe C80 che OTe VN ote je woe ee 


THE "EMPEROR? 5 oh ft LEAS 


ancholy, after having sustained against a monstrous 
mosquito — buzzing like a wasp, waving his an- 
tennz, and twisting his proboscis like the god Ganesa, 
and making his saws screak with the most audacious 
ferocity —a terrible combat in which I was defeated 
and whence I issued full of many poisoned wounds. I 
was beginning to sink into the black ocean of sleep, so 
like death that the ancients called it its sister, when, 
through my dense somnolence I heard low rumours, 
distant thunder, and the sound of terrifying voices. 
Was it a tempest, a battle, a cataclysm of nature, a 
combat between demons? Such was the question which 
occurred to me as I woke. Soon a deafening clamour 
tore through my last vestige of sleep as forked lightning 
through a black cloud. ‘The copper discs of the cym- 
bals sounded like the clash of armour, gongs vibrated 
with hollow roar, the big drum boomed like a Malay or 
a hundred bulls, the ophicleides and trumpets let loose 
metallic hurricanes, the cornets a piston shrieked rag- 
ingly, the little flute made desperate efforts to rise 
above the noise and overtop it. All the instruments 
rivalled each other in riot and hurly-burly. It sounded 
like a Festival by Hector Berlioz going adrift at night 


on the waters. When this musical whirlwind passed 


O21 


LLELLELLALLLEALALALLAL LLL ELLA 
aR AM EIS OTN Te Ania 


under my balcony, I seemed to hear at one and the 
same time the trumpets of Jericho and the clarions of 
the Last Judgment. A tempest of bells, ringing full 
swing, formed the accompaniment. 

The tumult proceeded towards the Grand Canal 
amid the red glare of many torches. It struck me 
that the serenade was somewhat uproarious, and I 
pitied with all my heart the fair for whom this mon- 
strous nocturnal racket, this colossal hubbub, was 


bP 


intended. ‘Her lover is not very discreet,” thought 
I to myself, “and he is not afraid to compromise his 
beauty. A guitar, a violin, a theorbo would, in my 
opinion, have been sufficient.” I was just falling 
asleep as the noise died away, when a white blinding 
flash struck on my closed eyes like the livid lightnings 
illuminating the darkness of the deepest night, and a 
frightful explosion which made the panes rattle and the 
house tremble from top to bottom, broke the silence. 
I leaped three feet into the air, wondering whether it 
was a thunderbolt falling into the room, or the siege of 
Venice resumed without notice and a shell bursting 
through the ceiling and plumping down on me in the 
midst of my sleep. Similar deafening detonations were 


repeated every fifteen minutes until morning, to the 


D272 


she ob obs aby abs aby ale abe che oly abe coals abe ele cb obs ofr abe er abl abe abe alle 


pi CPO TO CFS SIS SIH VIS wEN 


TH hiv esROIReS FEE DAY 


serious damage of my windows and my nerves. ‘They 
seemed to come from a very near point, and every time 
a livid flash foretold them. Between the discharges 
deep silence, the silence of death; none of the noctur- 
nal sounds which are like the breathing of sleeping 
cities. In the midst of the uproar Venice, mute, 
seemed to have sunk and lost itself in the lagoons. 
Every window was dark; not a single gondola lantern 
starred the profound darkness. 

The next morning the riddle was read to me: it 
was the féte day of the Emperor of Austria; all this 
excitement was in honour of the German Casar. The 
batteries of the Giudecca and of San Giorgio Maggiore 
fired right opposite me, and many window-panes in the 
neighbourhood had been smashed. With dawn the 
row recommenced worse than ever. The frigates 
fired alternately with the batteries; the bells clanged in 
the innumerable belfries of the city; file firing and 
volley firing rattled over all at regular intervals. “The 
burnt powder, rising everywhere in thick clouds was 
the incense destined to tickle the nostrils of the mas- 
ter, if from the height of his throne in Vienna he hap- 
pened to turn his head towards the Adriatic. It seemed 


to me that in all these homages to the Emperor there 


223 


LELALALALALLALALAL“LAL?’? LLL ALS 
TRAE GS SENSE TARE 


was a certain ostentation of artillery, a certain double 
meaning in the musketry firing. These festival com- 
pliments in the form of cannon-shots had a second 
purpose, and one did not need to be clever to under- 
stand it. 

I hastened to the Piazza. A Te Deum was being 
sung in the Basilica. The garrison in full dress was 
drawn up in a square on the Piazza, kneeling and ris- 
ing at a sign from the officers, as the service proceeded. 
A brilliant staff, covered with gold lace, was in the 
centre, sparkling brightly in the sunshine. Then at 
certain intervals the muskets were raised together, and 
admirably sustained file firing sent flying into the 
skies great white clouds of terrified doves. The poor 
pigeons of San Marco, terrified by the tumult and 
believing that, in violation of their immunities, they 
were to form the materials for an immense stew, did 
not know which way to turn. Crazed with terror 
they collided with each other in mid-air, struck against 
cornices, and flew off at top speed between domes and 
chimneys. Then, when silence came again, they 
returned to peck seed familiarly at their usual place 


at the very feet of the soldiers, so strong is the force 
of habit. 


224 


dhdbecheledh ch ecb de obec cba abdbeche eb cbebheh hed 
THE EMPEROR’S FETE DAY 


All this was going on in the midst of complete soli- 
tude. The Piazza, always swarming with people, 
was deserted; a few strangers only were moving about 
in small, isolated groups under the arcades of the Pro- 
curatie; the infrequent spectators who were not 
foreigners betrayed their German origin by their fair 
hair and their square faces. There was not a sing.e 
woman’s face at any window, and yet the sight of 
handsome uniforms worn by good-looking officers is 
appreciated in every country in the world by the more 
graceful half of humankind. Venice, suddenly de- 
populated, looked like one of those Oriental cities in 
Arab tales, which have been laid waste by an angry 
enchanter. ‘This uproar in deep silence, this excitement 
in emptiness, this vast display of force in isolation, had 
something strange, painful, alarming, supernatural about 
it. I felt a deep and singular impression in the pres- 
ence of a people apparently dead, while its oppressors 
exulted in their joy, of a city which suppressed itself 
in order not to be present at the triumph... The zon est 
raised to the state of manifestation, muteness that is a 
threat, absence that means revolt are the resources of 
the despair to which despotism drives the slave. As- 


suredly a universal howl, a general curse hurled against 


15 225 


che oe beck be be abe oe oe oe fected dele cbc cece school 


we wT 


TR AVE IGS “Ne ae 


the Emperor of Austria could not have been more 
forcible. As Venice could not protest otherwise, it 
had surrounded the féte with void. 

The discharges of artillery continued the whole day, 
and the regiments manceuvred on the Piazza and the 
Piazzetta, with myself as their only spectator. Weary 
of this monotonous diversion, I went for my favourite 
walk on the Riva degli Schiavoni, on which strolled a 
few Greeks and Armenians. There my ears were 
again torn by the guns of the frigate anchored in the 
port. At every discharge a poor little dog, tied by a 
rope to the mast of a Zante or Corfu vessel, sprang 
forward mad with terror and circled as far off as his 
leash allowed him, protesting as best he could against 
that stupid noise and yelping as if the sound hurt him. 
[ was quite of the dog’s opinion, and as I was not tied 
by a cord, I sailed off to Quintavalle, where I dined 
under the arbour at a sufficient distance from that hate- 
ful military uproar. 

That evening there was no one at the Café Florian. 
Those who have lived in Venice can alone conceive 
the deep meaning of the fact. The flower girls, the 
caramel vendors, the exhibitors of Chinese shadows, 


and even the ruffians had disappeared. Chairs, benches, 


226 


che bectecle be dec hhc ech chee oh chk 


THEVEMPEROR?CS FRETE DAY 


and galleries were deserted alike; there was not a soul 
even in the church, as if it were useless to pray toa 
God who left the people in slavery. I do not know 
whether, that evening, the little tapers before the 
Madonnas at the street corners were lighted. The 
band at the retreat played, im deserto, a magnificent 
overture, German music too, — an overture by Weber, 
if I remember it rightly. 

Not knowing what to do with myself at the close of 
this lugubrious evening, I entered the Apollo Theatre. 
The auditorium looked like the interior of a colum- 
barium; the empty and sombre boxes, like niches from 
which the coffins had been removed. A few squads 
of Austrian soldiery were scattered upon the empty 
benches ; some dozen German functionaries, with their 
wives and children, tried to look as if they were many, 
and to simulate the public which had abstained from 
coming. But apart from the soldiers, the huge place did 
not hold more than fifty spectators. A wretched com- 
pany played sadly and discontentedly behind smoking 
footlights a poor translation of a French play. A cold 
sadness, a deadly weariness fell from the ceiling like a 
wet, icy mantle. The dark theatre wore mourning for 


the liberty of Venice in the very face of the Austrians. 


227 


all obs obs obs ob aby obs ole obs alle ole be ole oben clle obs oll obs obe obs ole oe obs ele 


Jee ems OTe Cee CFO OF CFO we ove ave 


TeRIA VEE ESS); TING eae a 


The next day the sea-breeze had carried away the 
smell of the powder, and the doves, reassured, swept 
down like snowflakes upon the Piazza San Marco, 
while all Venice was ostentatiously stuffing itself with 


ices at the Café Florian. 


228 


tttebeottettetttbtdttbits 


Wings N LPALY 


AN BIAGGIO—THE CAPUCHIN 
CONVENT 


VERY one, at least once in his life, has been 
unable to get rid of a musical phrase, a line 


of poetry, an expression dropped in conver- 


op) 


sation, heard by chance, and which pursues him every- 
where with the invincible obstinacy of a spectre. 
A monotonous voice murmurs in your ear the ac- 
cursed theme, a dumb orchestra plays it within your 
brain, your pillow repeats it, and your dreams whisper 
it; an invisible power forces you to mutter it stupidly 
from morning to night, as a devotee repeats his 
somnolent litany. 

For a week past a song of Alfred de Musset’s, an 
imitation, no doubt, of some old popular Venetian 
poetry, had fluttered about my lips, twittering like a bird, 
without my being able to drive it away. In spite of 
myself, I hummed in the most incongruous situations : 

«© At San Biaggio, on the Zuecca, you were very, very 


happy, at San Biaggio. At San Biaggio, on the Zuecca, we 
were happy indeed. 


229 


<< But to remember it, will you take the trouble? But to 
remember it, and to return to it? 

<< At San Biaggio, on the Zuecca, in the flowery meads 
yervain to pick; at San Biaggio on the Zuecca, there to live 


and die.’’ 


The Zuecca —short for the Giudecca — was be- 
fore me, separated only by the breadth of the canal, 
and nothing was easier than to go to that San Biaggio 
which the song describes as a sort of Cytherea, a 
languorous El Dorado, the earthly Paradise of love, 
where it would be sweet to live and die. A few 
strokes of the oars would have taken me to it; but 
knowing that one should never land upon fairy shores 
lest the mirage should vanish into haze, I continued 
to be unbearable with my refrain, “* At San Biaggio on 


> 


the Zuecca,” which was turning into what is called in 
painters’ studios a bore. So my travelling companion, 
who for a week had borne with that cantilena as unen- 
durable as the humming of a mosquito, unable to put 
up with it any longer, said sharply one morning to our 
young gondolier as he stepped into the craft, “ To San 
Biaggio on the Zuecca.” In order to break me of it, 
he was going to take me into my dream and my 


refrain, which is an excellent homceopathic remedy. 


230 


be oh ob of one abe obs obs obs ob obs obo ele obs ob of See ete obo ele obs abe obo ols 


SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT 


Never a flowery mead did I come across at San 
Biaggio, and to my great regret, no vervain could [| 
pluck. Around the church stretch market gardens 
in which vegetables take the place of flowers. Dis- 
appointed though I was, I could not help admiring 
the very fine grapes and splendid pumpkins. It is 
probable that when the song was written the point 
of the island was waste ground, the fresh grass of 
which was diapered with flowers in the springtime, 
and lovers walked hand in hand, looking at the moon. 
An old Venetian guidebook describes the Zuecca as 
a place full of gardens, orchards, and delightful spots. 
Poetic enthusiasm is killed when one finds instead 
of a dainty flower with tender colours and penetrat- 
ing perfume, blooming on the green sward, big pump- 
kins turning yellow under broad leaves, and from that 
moment I ceased to sing, “* At San Biaggio on the 
Zuecca.” 

In order to turn my trip to account, I proceeded 
along the island to the church del Redentore, situated 
near the Capuchin convent. ‘The church possesses 
a fine Greek facade, elegant in style and harmonious 
in proportion, such as Palladio knew how to design. 


It is a kind of architecture which satisfies people of 


231 


betkbeebeeeeeeeeedt ddd ter 
PRVAWREAES. \D INS eee 


taste by its sobriety, its purity, and its true classicism. 
At the risk of being charged with being a barbarian, 
I confess that these facades give me very slight pleas- 
ure. In the case of Catholic churches, I believe 
only in the Byzantine, Romanesque, or Gothic styles. 
Greek art was so appropriate to polytheism that it is 
very difficult for it to express any other thought ; 
hence churches built in accordance with its princi- 
ples lack wholly the religious impress, in the sense 
which we attach to that word. The luminous se- 
renity of antiquity, with its perfect rhythm and its 
logical forms, cannot render the vague, infinite, and 
mysterious meaning of Christianity; the unchange- 
able happiness of paganism does not understand the 
incurable Christian melancholy, and Greek architec- 
ture produces, as far as temples go, only palaces, 
exchanges, ball-rooms, and museums, more or less 
ornamented, in which Jupiter would be very com- 
fortable, but in which Christ finds it difficult to 
dwell, 

But once the style of architecture is accepted, it 
must be admitted that the church del Redentore shows 
well on the banks of the canal in which it is reflected, 


with its great monumental staircase of seventeen 


232 


aoe eo oe be ae oe ok be cece cece cde ecto oat 
SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT 


marble steps, its triangular gable, its Corinthian col- 
umns, its bronze doors and statues, its two pyramid- 
ions, and its white dome which is so effective at 
sunset when you are travelling in a gondola between 
the Public Gardens and San Giorgio Maggiore. 

The church was built in fulfilment of the vow of 
the Senate at the time of the plague of 1576, which 
caused frightful mortality in the city, and killed, among 
other illustrious personages, Titian, the patriarch of 
painting, laden with years and glory. The interior 
is very simple, and even somewhat bare. Whether 
the funds gave out or for some other reason, the 
statues which appear to fill the niches along the nave 
are mere shams, skilfully done in grisaille by the Cap- 
uchin Father Piazza. The niches themselves are 
real, but the statues, painted upon wooden boards 
cut out to shape, betray the sham by the lack of 
thickness when looked at in profile; if looked at 
from the front, the illusion is perfect. 

As regards the paintings, it is the old story: Tin- 
toretto, Bassano, Paolo Veronese. There are such 
numbers of excellent paintings in Venice that one 
almost gets tired of them, and ends by believing that 


in those days it was no more difficult to paint a 


#33 


aoe chee fe he chao oe he cect ceed ce ec ree oh tec 


Sed we oe 


LURAY eats ©. ING eek 


splendid Venetian picture than it is to-day to scrib- 
ble an article currente calamo; yet I advise the tourist 
to look at a Giovanni Bellini, of the greatest beauty, 
which adorns the sacristy. The subject is the Blessed 
Virgin and the Child Jesus between Saint Jerome 
and Saint Francis. The divine Mother contemplates 
with profound adoration the Child sleeping in her 
lap. Little smiling angels playing the guitar, flutter 
on an ultramarine background. Every one knows 
with what delicacy, with what refinement of senti- 
ment, with what purity Giovanni Bellini paints scenes 
to which his brush is accustomed; but in this one, 
besides the artless charm of the composition, the 
Gothic fidelity of drawing, and the somewhat dry 
carefulness of the modelling, there is a brilliancy of 
colour, a golden warmth of tone which presages 
Giorgione ; consequently some connoisseurs attribute 
this painting to Palma Vecchio. I believe it is by 
Giovanni Bellini. The unusual brilliancy of the col- 
ouring is due simply to the more perfect preservation 
of the painting. Venice is so naturally the place 
for colour that gray is impossible, even for line 
painters, and the most severely Gothic enrich their 


asceticism with Giorgione’s amber. 


234 


choke as oboe ob abe ob oe abe ce aoade che ce feeb ce abo bale abs shee 


ate wie ae 


SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT 


Two or three Capuchins engaged in prayer would 
have given to this church, had the light been less bril- 
liant, the look of one of those paintings by Granet 
which were so much admired a score of years ago. 
The good fathers were perfectly posed; all they needed 
was the dab of brilliant red on the ear. Another was 
humbly sweeping the choir, and I asked him whether 
we might visit the monastery. He very politely 
granted our request, and made us enter by a small side 
door leading from the church into the cloister. 

I had long felt a desire to see the interior of an in- 
habited monastery. In Spain I had been unable to 
satisfy this religious and picturesque desire. The 
monks had just been secularised, and the monasteries, 
as was the case in France after the Revolution, had 
become national property. I had walked in melan- 
choly fashion through the Carthusian Convent at 
Miraflores near Burgos, where I met only a poor old 
man dressed in a dark costume, something between a 
peasant’s and a priest’s dress, smoking his cigarette 
near a brazero, who guided me along the deserted pas- 
sages and the abandoned cloisters on which opened 
the empty cells. At Toledo the Monastery of San 
Juan de los Reyes, a splendid ruined building, held only 


a5) 


TRAV ELS! 9EN) ARE 


a few timid lizards and stray snakes which, at the 
sound of our steps, disappeared under the nettles and 
débris. The refectory was almost entire, and above 
the door a frightful painting exhibited a rotting body. 
The object was to kill the sensuality of the meals, 
which were, nevertheless, served with hermit-like aus- 
terity. “The Carthusian Convent at Granada held only 
turtles, which dived heavily into the water from the 
edge of the fish-pond at the approach of visitors; and 
the magnificent convent of San Domingo, on the 
slope of Antequerula, listened in deep solitude to the 
murmur of its fountains and of its laurel woods. 
The Capuchin convent on the Zuecca was quite 
unlike these wonderful edifices with their long white 
marble cloisters, their elegantly carved arcades, marvels 
of the Middle Ages or of the Renaissance, their courts 
planted with jessamine, myrtles, and rose laurels, their 
upspringing fountains, their cells through the windows 
of which one could see the soft, silvery blue of the 
Sierra Nevada. It was not one of those magnificent 
refuges in which austerity is but an additional delight 
to the soul, and in which a philosopher would be 
as happy as a Christian. “The cloister was bare of 


architectural ornaments: low arcades, short pillars, a 


236 


dedechdbd kdb ch ch ch bobchehbb beh cheb he 


58 wie we 


SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT 


prison yard rather than a promenade for reverie. An 
ugly roof of staring red tiles covered the whole build- 
ing; there was not even the severe and sad bareness, 
the gray, cold tones, the dimness of light which are 
favourable to thought; a harsh, brilliant light crudely 
lighted up the wretched details and brought out their 
commonplace meanness. In the garden, of which one 
caught a glimpse, there were rows of cabbages and 
vegetables of the harshest green, — not a shrub, not a 
flower, everything was sacrificed to strict usefulness. 

I next entered the interior of the convent, which is 
cut by long passages at right angles to each other. 
At the end of the passages there were chapels made 
in the wall and coloured with coarse frescoes in honour 
of the Madonna or some saint of the order. The 
windows, with their panes set in lead, admitted light, 
but did not produce those effects of light and shade 
which painters know so well how to turn to account. 
It seemed as though everything had been calculated in 
that building to produce the greatest possible amount of 
ugliness in the smallest possible space. Here and there 
were hung engravings pasted on canvas representing in 
innumerable small medallions all the saints, cardinals, 


prelates, and illustrious personages of the order, —a 


231 


DRA VBA OSS LIND ul eye eae 


whe of obs ole oe ol elle abe abe ole abe obo abs ober obey obs ole obe of ole obs ols ofe of 


sort of genealogical tree of this impersonal and ever 
renewed family. Low doors marked at regular inter- 
vals the long white lines of the walls. On each was 
inscribed a religious reflection, a prayer, or one of those 
brief Latin maxims so full of thought. An image of 
the Virgin or a portrait of a saint, the object of special 
devotion on the part of the inhabitant of the cell, was 
added to the inscription. 

A great tiled roof covered, without touching them, 
the cells of these monastic bees, like a cover placed 
upon rows of boxes. 

A bell sounded, calling either to a repast, to prayer, 
or some other ascetic exercise. “The doors of the cells 
opened, and the passages, but now deserted, were filled 
with a troop of monks, who walked on two by two 
with bowed heads, their great beards spread over their 
breasts, their hands crossed within their sleeves, as they 
moved towards the part of the convent to which the 
bell was calling them. When they raised their feet, 
the sandals, as they dropped from their heels, tapped 
on the floor in a very monastic and lugubrious fashion 
and gloomily timed their spectral march. Some forty 
of them passed before us, and I saw nothing but heavy, 


dull, brutish faces without any character, in spite of 


238 


oho abe obs obs ob obs obs obs of abe ofp abo ells oho ole obs obs obs ots obo gio vin obs abe 


Cpe GO CHO CFO CFO OTO OHO O48 Vie Vie SY ae 


SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT 


their beards and their shaven polls. How different 
they were from the monk of San Servolo, consumed by 
fervour, calcined by faith, worn by macerations, and 
whose feverish eye shone with the light of the future 
life, an ecstasy betraying delirium, — Daniel among 
the lions. 

Certainly I had entered the convent with respectful, 
if not pious intentions. If I do not myself possess 
faith, | admire it in others, and if I cannot be a be- 
liever, at least I can understand others being so. I 
was therefore prepared to feel all the austere ardour of 
the cloister, and I was rather cruelly disappointed. 
The convent produced on me the effect of a lazaretto, 
of a lunatic asylum, or a barracks. The repulsive 
odour of a human menagerie rose to my nostrils and 
sickened me. It has been said of some holy person- 
ages that they were filled with the madness of the 
cross, stultitiam crucis; it seemed to me that these 
monks had the idiocy of the cross, and in spite of my- 
self my mind rebelled and I blushed at such a degrada- 
tion of creatures made in God’s image. I was ashamed 
that a hundred men should collect in such a hole to be 
dirty and stink in obedience to certain rules in honour 


of Him who has created eighty thousand different kinds 


239 


she ob abe oy abe ae obo be cbr cbr clrcle cheba bral free ceo abe oe 


ere ere ove we wie wie vie 


(aRCAW TLS ON +e Ate 


of flowers. The loathsome incense revolted me, and I 
felt towards these poor Capuchin fathers involuntary 
secret horror. 

When I left the convent two of the fathers who had 
business in Venice, asked us to take them in our gon- 
dola across the Giudecca. Through humility they 
would not accept the place of honour in the /é/ze 
which we offered them, and they remained standing by 
the prow. ‘They looked rather well thus. Their 
gowns of brown stuff fell in two or three heavy folds 
which Fra Bartolommeo would not have disdained 
when painting the gown of Saint Francis of Assisi ; 
their bare, sandalled feet were very handsome, the great 
toe separated and the other toes long, like those of 
antique statues. I gave them a few pence to say some 
Masses on my behalf. The sceptical ideas which had 
worried me during the whole of my visit justified such 
Christian submission on my part, and if it was the devil 
who had suggested them to me, he must have been 
badly tricked and bitten his tail like an angry monkey. 
The good priests took the money, slipped it into the 
fold of their sleeve, and seeing that I was such a good 
Catholic, they gave me a few copper-plate engravings, 


which I have carefully preserved: Saint Moses the 


240 


EOS eh oh ode she che oho he he che che che che obo oh cha che she che ode ohe 


CFO OFS oFe wTe UFO one vie vie te we 


SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT 


prophet, Saint Francis, a few other bearded saints, and 
a certain Veronica Giuliana, a Capuchin abbess (abba- 
dessa cappuccina), with her head thrown back and her 
eyes filled with ecstasy, like those of Saint Teresa of 
Spain, who pitied the devil because he could not love. 
We landed the good fathers at the Traghetto di 
Moise, and soon they disappeared in the narrow lanes. 
My day had not been very favourable to my illusions. 
At San Biaggio on the Zuecca, pumpkins had taken the 
place of vervain, and where [ had expected to find a 
sombre cloister with livid monks after the fashion of 
Zurbaran, I had found an ignoble home of Capuchins, 
with monks like those in Schlesinger’s coloured litho- 
graphs. The latter disappointment was peculiarly pain- 
ful to me, for I had long caressed the dream of ending 
my days under a monk’s cowl in some handsome Italian 
or Portuguese convent, at Monte Casino or Maftra, — 


and now I did not feel at all like doing so. 


16 241 


eke oe ok oe be oe oe ah ete cece abe cb cde oe ec 
LRAY ELS JN [va 


che che obs obo abe che abe be oho abe abe abe cde che obo abe she cde che obo be fe obec 


whe ae oF OFS OOS 


CARDURA HB SiACN DS Guat Ges 


I'TH the exception of San Marco, a marvel 
\) \) which has no parallel save the mosque at 
Constantinople and that at Cordova, the 
Venetian churches are not remarkable for their archi- 
tecture, or at least do not astonish a tourist who has 
visited the cathedrals of France, Spain, and Belgium. 
Save a few of the older and more interesting ones, they 
are all of the time of the Renaissance, and in the rococo 
style which very quickly followed in Italy the return to 
classical traditions. The former are in the style of 
Palladio; the latter in a particular style which I shall 
call the Jesuit. Nearly all the old churches in the city 
have unfortunately been restored in one or the other of 
these styles. Certainly Palladio, as is proved by so 
many noble buildings, is an architect of great merit, but 
he had not the least Catholic feeling, and he was better 
fitted to rebuild the temple of Diana at Ephesus and of 
Zeus Olympius than to construct a basilica for the 


Nazarene or any one of the martyrs of the Golden 


242 


che cbe oe ate abe che chao oe a cece chert cbc cde ae ote ee 


= = = . 


Peruse PiowaeN DD) Se VoL E 
Legend. He sucked like a bee the honey of Hymettus, 


and flew by the passion-flowers. 

As for the Jesuit taste, with its gibbous domes, its 
swelling pillars, its pot-bellied balustrades, its volutes 
like flourishes, its puffy cherubs, its wretched angels, 
its napkin-like cartouches, its chicories the size of cab- 
bages, its unhealthy affectations, and its extravagant or- 
namentation which looks like excrescences on diseased 
stone, I confess that it inspires me with insurmount- 
able repugnance. It is more than unpleasant, — to 
me it is disgusting. Nothing, in my opinion, is more 
contrary to the Christian idea than that loathsome 
heaping up of devout knick-knacks, that ugly, ungra- 
cious luxury, overdone, heavy, like the luxury of a 
new-made rich man, which causes the chapel of the 
Most Blessed Virgin to resemble the boudoir of an 
Opera chorus-girl. 

The Church degli Scalzi is in this style, and is a 
model of extravagant richness. The walls, overlaid 
with coloured marbles, represent vast hangings of silk 
damask with white and green borders; the frescoed ceil- 
ings by Tiepoletto and Lazzarini, bright, light, clear in 
tone, with rose and azure as the keynote of the colour- 


ing, would be admirably suited to a ball-room or a 


243 


oe eo fe be oe ce oh de che tech cde cde cde eae ab oboe oho 
TRAV BILS? TN SAS 


theatre. The place must have looked lovely when it 
was filled with powdered abbés and fine ladies in the 
days of Cazenova and Cardinal de Bernis, while a 
musical Mass by Porpora was being performed by the 
violins and the chorus of the Fenice. Indeed, it 
would be the most natural thing in the world in such 
a place to worship the Eternal to a gavotte tune. 
How greatly I prefer the low Romanesque arches, the 
squat porphyry pillars, the antique capitals, the barbaric 
images standing out against a golden background in 
Byzantine mosaics, or the slender vaulting, the light 
columns, and the trefoil tracery of Gothic cathedrals. 
These architectural defects, — to which one has to 
be resigned in Italy, for all the churches are built more 
or less in that taste, are compensated for by the 
number and beauty of the objects of art contained in 
the buildings. Even if one does not admire the cas- 
ket, the jewels it holds compel admiration. Every- 
where one comes upon Titian, Paolo Veronese, 
Tintoretto, Palma Vecchia, and Palma the younger, 
Giovanni Bellini, Padovanino, Bonifazzio, and other 
great masters. Every chapel has its own museum, of 
which a king would be proud. This very Church 
degli Scalzi, once you put up with the bad taste of it, 


24.4 


che che ae obo ohe ohe ofa abe abe e cece oe ca bao ce ba oe bese 


O70 OTe UFO OF CFE CTD ain SIO 


Prete Lh ho eAIN DIS COOL E 


contains some remarkable details. Its broad staircase 
of Verona brocatella, its handsome twisted pillars of red 
French marble, its giant prophets, its touchstone balus- 
trades, its mosaic gates have a certain style about them 
and do not lack for grandeur. It contains a very fine 
painting by Giovanni Bellini, a “ Virgin and Child,” 
a magnificent bronze bas-relief by Sansovino repre- 
senting scenes from the life of Saint Sebastian, and a 
group less severely artistic, but charming, by Toretti, 
Canova’s master, —a Holy Family, Saint Joseph, the 
Virgin, and the Child Jesus. The Virgin has a deli- 
cate, plump face, the head is coquettishly posed, and 
her hands and feet are aristocratically small. She looks 
like a duchess of the court of Louis XV, and might 
very well represent Madame de Pompadour. Angels 
like ballet dancers accompany this pretty, worldly 
group. Assuredly it is not religious, but this man- 
nered and clever grace has a charm of its own, 
and the decadent sculptor is still a great artist. 

The Church of San Sebastiano, built by San Serlio, 
is in some sort the Pinacothek and the Pantheon of 
Paolo Veronese. He worked in it for years, and rests 
there forever in the blaze of his masterpieces. His 


tombstone is surmounted by his bust, and bears his 


24.5 


whee abe ote che heck he abe ch bec echoed teclec chabeh 
TRAVELS 21 N Olel Ape 


coat of arms, three trefoils on a field which I could 
not make out. We may admire this “Saint Sebas- 
tian” by Titian, with its fine old-man’s head, its 
superb and magisterial port, and the pretty, artless 
movement of the child who holds the holy bishop’s 
mitre. But I shall hasten on to the lord of the place, 
Paolo Caliari. The “Three Marys at the Foot of 
the Cross” are noticeable by the splendid composition 
and the richness of breadth characteristic of this painter, 
whom no one equalled in the art of filling spaces in 
great paintings. Brocade and damask are broken into 
rich folds, swell in splendid patterns, and the Christ 
from his cross of sorrows cannot help a faint half- 
smile, for the joy of being so admirably painted soothes 
his sufferings. “The Magdalen is adorably beautiful; 
her great eyes are filled with light and tears, a tear 
trembles on her purple lips like a raindrop on a rose. 
The landscape background is unfortunately painted 
somewhat too much like a stage-setting, and its ill-con- 
nected distances are plainly weak to the eye. “The 
Presentation of Christ in the Temple” is also a very 
remarkable painting, in spite of the exaggeration of the 
figures placed in the foreground; but the head of 


Saint Simeon is full of divine feeling, and is marvel- 


246 


lously painted, while the Child Jesus is foreshortened 
in the most amazing manner. In a corner of the 
painting a dog, with its nose turned up sadly, seems to 
bay at the moon. Nothing explains the presence of 
this isolated animal, but Paolo Veronese’s fondness for 
dogs, especially for greyhounds, is well known. He 
has put dogs in all his paintings, and the church of 
San Sebastiano happens to possess the one and only 
picture in which he did not put any, so that it is 
pointed out as a unique curiosity in the master’s 
work. I was unable to verify for myself the accuracy 
of the statement, but as I think it over, it does seem 
to me that a painting by Paolo Veronese always recurs 
to one’s mind accompanied by a white greyhound, just 
as a painting by Garofalo is always adorned and signed 
with his invariable carnation. 

The purest gem of those picturesque diamonds is 
the “ Martyrdom of Saint Mark and Marcellus, en- 
couraged by Saint Sebastian.” Art can scarce go 
farther, and this picture must be reckoned among the 
seven wonders of human genius. What marvellous 
colour and drawing in the group formed of a woman 
and a child, which the glance first falls upon as one 


looks at the picture! What ineffable emotion, what 


—_——. 


247 


SF ce ee 


TRAW ELS 2EN PA 


celestial resignation overspread the faces of the two 
saints already radiant with the coming glory, and 
how charming is the woman’s head seen in three- 
quarters above the shoulder of Saint Sebastian, — 
young, fair, filled with emotion, her glance sad and 
solicitous. [he head, which is all that is visible of 
the figure, is so accurate in movement, so perfect 
in drawing, that the rest of the body can easily be 
guessed behind the group which conceals it; you 
can follow the lines down to the extremities, so 
exact is the anatomy. It is said that the Saint 
Sebastian is a portrait of Paolo Veronese him- 
self, and the young girl that of his wife. They 
were both then in the flower of their age, and 
she had not yet bloomed out into the full, heavy, 
matronly beauty which is characteristic of her in the 
portraits we have of her—among others that in the 
Pitti Palace in Florence. The stuffs, the jewels, 
the accessories, all are finished with the extreme 
care and conscientious elaboration of early works, 
when an artist labours only to satisfy his genius and 
his art. It is almost immediately below this painting 
that the artist is buried. Never did a more bDril- 


liant lamp gleam over the shadow of the tomb, and 


248 


oo bea ke abe ake oe oe che a cade ele abe cl cece ce esha 


ore ore oe OFS OFe OTO ae OHO Ute aie Sie 


Creek Ctl BipeeaeN 1): SiC O LE 


the masterpiece shines above the dead like a dazzling 
apotheosis. . 

The “Coronation of the Virgin”? is shown in the 
midst of a blaze, a display, a sparkling of light which 
never existed save on Paolo Veronese’s palette. In 
an atmosphere of molten gold and silver which passes 
through the hair of the Christ, floats in mid-air a 
Mary of such celestially human beauty that your heart 
beats as you bow your head. The ‘Coronation of 
Esther by Ahasuerus”’ is of incomparable grandeur 
and richness of tone. Here Paolo Veronese gave 
full scope to his splendid manner; pearls, satins, 
velvets, and brocades gleam, shimmer, _ sparkle, 
and are broken by luminous folds. The warrior 
in the foreground, careless of the anachronism of his 
armour, has a proud and manly port; the inevitable 
great dog is well placed, evidently thorough-bred, 
and feels that it is an honour to be painted by Paolo 
Veronese. 

In the upper portion of the church, in a part almost 
invisible from below, there are great monochromes 
by the master painted with exceeding lightness and a 
very fine effect. Damp, time, and the lack of atten- 


tion have begun to destroy them; an Austrian shell 


249 


TRAV EDs) UN@ Tage 


which burst through the ceiling has scarred them with 
a broad cicatrice. 

The sacristy also contains paintings by Veronese, 
but they belong to his early youth, when his yet timid 
genius was feeling its way. 

There are several explanations of the prodigious 
number of paintings by him in this church: first, that 
he was specially devoted to Saint Sebastian; next, and 
more romantic, that having murdered a rival, he was 
compelled to seek refuge in this place, which he em- 
bellished out of gratitude during his long leisure hours ; 
according to others again, the painter concealed himself 
for two years in San Sebastiano in order to escape the 
vengeance of a Senator, a caricature of whom he had 
exhibited on the Piazza San Marco. I repeat these 
stories for what they are worth, without taking the 
trouble to criticise them. 

Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari is not in the hideous 
classical or Jesuit taste of which I was speaking a 
moment ago. Its ogees, its lancets, its Romanesque 
tower, its great walls of red brick give it a much more 
religious aspect. Above the doorway is a statue of the 
Saviour. “The church, built by Nicolas Pisano, is of 
the year 1250. It is here that Canova is buried. The 


250 


—————————— EE eee eee eee 


bbpbebttttbtttetbbttttddcdel 


Cre RG Et SgeaN.DY SGU OLE 


monument which the artist had designed for Titian, 
modified in some respects, was used for him. I do not 
much admire it; it is pretentious, theatrical, and cold. 
At the foot of a green marble pyramid placed against 
the wall of a chapel gapes the black door of a vault, 
towards which winds a procession of statues placed 
on the steps of the monument; at the head walks a 
funeral figure, bearing a sepulchral urn; behind, genii 
and allegorical figures carrying torches and garlands of 
flowers. ‘Io counterbalance this portion of the com- 
position, a great nude figure, which I believe is symboli- 
cal of the brevity of life, leans upon a torch which it is 
putting out, and the winged lion of Saint Mark sadly 
leans its head upon its paws in a_ pose analogous 
to that of Thorwaldsen’s famous lion. Above the 
door two genii hold a medallion portrait of Canova. 
The monument is all the poorer and the meaner in 
idea and execution that the Santa Maria dei Frari is 
full of the most effective ancient monuments in the 
finest style. 

The equestrian statue of General Colleoni, which 
looks uncommonly well upon a bronze horse, first 
strikes the eye as one comes up the canal to the small 


Square at the back of which rises the Church di San 


251 


Pewee WO MTUNTTC TT CS 


wre FO WHO WTO VFO Oe we UFO 


TRAVELS JN? aoe 


Giovannie San Paolo. Although built in the thirteenth 
or fourteenth century, the church was not consecrated 
before 1430. [he pediment of the fagade is pretty, the 
circular arcade which surmounts it is wondrously carved 
with flowers and fruits. People go there chiefly to see 
“ The Martyrdom of Saint Peter” by ‘Titian, a paint- 
ing so precious that it has been forbidden to sell it 
under penalty of death. I like this artistic ferocity ; 
it is the only case in which it seems to me that capital 
punishment should be inflicted. Yet, other paintings 
by ‘Titian seem to me as worthy as this one, in spite 
of its beauty, of such jealousy on the part of Venice, 
and I had formed an idea of it different and greater 
than the reality turned out to be. The scene is in a 
wood. Saint Peter has fallen ; the executioner has caught 
him by the arm and is raising his sword ; a priest flees 
in terror, and in the sky appear two angels ready to 
receive the martyr’s soul. The executioner is admira- 
bly drawn; he threatens and insults in rare fashion; 
a brutal, furious expression marks his face; his eyes 
shine under a low brow like that of a tiger; his nos- 
trils are dilated and scent blood. But perhaps there 
is too much terror and not enough resignation in the 


face of the Saint. He sees the sword only, the cold 


252 


S$tbeeteetetceetetttttttttes 


ry wie wie ee 


CRU CIES 770N DD! S@wOiL E 


steel of which will presently be thrust between his 
ribs, and he forgets that in the azure above soar celes- 
tial messengers with palms and crowns. He looks too 
much like an ordinary man condemned to death, whose 
throat is about to be cut and who is sorry for it. As 
for the monk, he is thoroughly frightened and filled 
with terror, but he does not run off properly. His 
body, much foreshortened, is ungainly; his legs are 
thrown back as he runs, his arms go one way and his 
head another. If the composition may be criticised, 
one has, on the other hand, to kneel in admiration be- 
fore the magnificent landscape, so grand, so severe, so 
full of style, before the simple, manly, robust colouring, 
the broad and grand execution, the impassible masterli- 
ness of touch, the proud maestria which reveals the 
god of painting. ‘Titian, as I have said, is the single 
artist whom the modern world can oppose to anti- 
quity for calm strength, tranquil splendour, and eternal 
serenity. 

I might mention the funeral monuments which cover 
the walls: the altar of San Domenichino, on which 
the history of the saint is modelled ina series of bronze 
basst-reevi by Mazza of Bologna; ‘Tintoretto’s 


“Christ on the Cross;” the magnificent carvings 


253 


bebbbttettetetdhtbtddtt dts 
T RAW BLS sD Naa 


in the chapel of Santa Maria degli Rosi; the 
“© Coronation of the Virgin,’ by Palma Vecchio ; — 
but in achurch where there is a Titian, you see 
nothing but Titian; he is the sun that extinguishes all 
the stars. 

San Francesco della Vigna, with its red and white 
belfry, also deserves to be visited. There is near the 
church a curious cloister, enclosed with gratings of 
dark wood, which surrounds a sort of green filled with 
wild mallow, nettles, hemlock, asphodel, burdocks, and 
other plants found in ruins and cemeteries, among which 
rises a grotto of rock-work and shells, within which is 
placed an effigy of Saint Francis, in wood or coloured 
plaster, a sort of devotional toy or Jesuit’s fancy. 
Under the damp and mouldy arches of the cloister, 
among the tombs worn by time and inscriptions which 
are illegible, I noticed on a stone slab a gondola carved 
in very low relief but still quite plain. It is placed 
over a gondoliers’ vault like the tomb of the Zorzi of 
Cattaro in the church of San Sebastiano. Each traghetto 
thus had its own separate burial-place. 

At San Francesco della Vigna I saw a painting by 
Fra Antonio da Negroponte, remarkable for its beauty 


and its preservation. It is the only one by that 


254 


bebbbbeteetetettttttttts 
CELUWIRC HVE SIAN D' SCUOQLE 


painter which I have ever come across. I had never 
before heard his name, and yet it deserves to be 
known. The Virgin enthroned is dressed in a gown 
of gold brocade and a mantle figured with flowers 
painted in the most delicate manner. Ai little girl 
holds up the corner of the mantle with an air of in- 
genuous devotion, while the Virgin looks lovingly 
at the Child Jesus lying in her lap. The Virgin’s 
head, with its exquisite delicacy, would do honour to 
Giovanni Bellini, Carpaccio, Perugino, Diirer, and 
the purest and most suave of the older masters. She 
is fair, and her golden hair, painted with great care, 
melts into the splendour of a trefoiled nimbus en~ 
crusted with precious stones after the Byzantine fash- 
ion. Above, from within the ultramarine of an 
artless paradise, the Eternal Father gazes upon the 
sacred group in a satisfied and majestic pose. “I’wo 
handsome angels hold garlands of flowers, and behind 
the throne, covered with gold-work and enamels like 
that of an empress of the Lower Empire, bloom 
masses of roses and lilies which recall the sweet 
names given to the Virgin in the litany. 

The work is painted with slow minuteness and in- 


finite patience, which seem to have paid no heed to 


255 


BLAELEALEALLASAEALL LALA TERS 
TRAVELS -lNe See 


time and which betray the ample leisure of the clois- 
ter; for Negroponte was a monk, as shown by the 
inscription upon the painting: “ Pater Antonio Ne- 
groponte pinxit.”” But his extreme minuteness in no 
wise diminishes the grandeur of the impression or the 
imposing effect, while the richness of the colouring 
rivals the brilliancy of the gold and the ornaments 
in relief. It is at one and the same time an image 
and a jewel, as, in my opinion, paintings intended for 
the worship of the faithful should be. In that case 
art is improved by the hieratic and mysterious luxury 
of the idol. The Madonna of Fra Antonio da Ne- 
groponte at San Francesco della Vigna thoroughly 
fulfils these conditions, and stands perfectly being 
placed near “The Risen Christ” by Paolo Veronese, 
“The Martyrdom of Saint Laurent” by Santacroce, 
and the “ Madonna” by Giovanni Bellini, which is 
one of his best works, though unfortunately it is 
placed in an obscure chapel. 

One should not neglect to visit San Pantaleone, if 
only to see the huge ceiling painted by Fumiani, 
representing different episodes in the life of the saint, 
his martyrdom and his glorification. Since the days 


of monastic stiffness and mnissal-like artlessness of 


256 


LLLLAALLALALAAPESLLALALA LALLA ASA 
CROC H Baa PAN ID) S60 OLE 


Fra Antonio da Negroponte many years have passed 
and art has progressed. Whence is it, then, that 
this ceiling, which, so far as bold facility goes, equals 
Lemoine’s ceiling in the Hall of Hercules and Luca 
Giordano’s frescoes at the Escorial, leaves you cold 
in spite of the skilful foreshortening, of the elusive 
painting, and all the resources and tricks of execu- 
tion? It is because in this case the means are the 
end, the hand works more quickly than the brain, and 
there is no soul in that vast composition suspended 
above your head like an actress at the Opera by 
plainly visible cords. The driest, most constrained, 
most unskilful Gothic possesses a charm which is 
lacking in all these great, mannered painters, so clever, 
so quick, so skilful, so expeditious in their mode of 
work, 

In the Church of Santa Maria della Salute there is 
a superb ceiling by Titian, “ The Murder of Abel by 
Cain,’ which is painted with masterly vigour and 
dash. It is at once calm and violent, like all the 
thoroughly successful works of this unrivalled painter. 
The church was built by Baldassare Longhena. ‘The 
white cupolas have a very graceful curve. One hun- 


dred and thirty statues with flying draperies and ele- 


17 257 


chee he he ae ae be oh che che cece echo echo che lnc ae obec 
TRAVELS INDI hee 


gantly mannered poses surround the cornice. When 
I lived in the Hotel de Europe a very pretty Eve, 
in the costume of her day, smiled at me every morn- 
ing from that cornice in a rosy ray of sunshine which 
flushed her marble with modest blushes. Religion 
is not prudish in Italy, and it willingly puts up with 
nudity when it is sanctified by art. | 

I might continue indefinitely this pilgrimage from 
church to church, for they all contain treasures which 
deserve to be described; but I have no intention of 
writing a guide-book, so we shall go straight to the 
Scuole di San Rocco, an elegant building composed 
of two orders of superimposed Corinthian columns 
which at one-third of their height are coupled by an 
exceedingly pretty fillet. 

San Rocco, as every one knows, enjoys the priv- 
ilege of curing the plague, so he is greatly venerated 
in Venice, which is particularly exposed to the pest 
through its relations with Constantinople and the 
Levant. The statue of the saint shows upon the 
bare thigh a horrible, inflamed boil, for the saints are 
homceopaths and cure only the diseases which they 
suffer from. The plague is treated by a plague- 


stricken saint, ophthalmia by a martyr whose eyes have 


258 


choke eae oe he hace oh ch adeeb decease 


eo ete oe ee 


OPC TU PermneN 1) t S eo OLE 


been put out, and so on; it is really a case of similia 
similibus. Leaving the medical question aside, no 
doubt it was thought that these blessed personages 
would sympathise more deeply with evils from which 
they had suffered themselves. 

In the Scuole di San Rocco there is a low hall 
painted throughout by ‘Tintoretto, that tremendous 
worker, and on ascending a magnificent and monu- 
mental staircase by Scarpagnino, there are on the right 
and on the left, as if to justify the name and patronage 
of the plague-stricken saint, different scenes in the 
great Venetian epidemic which might illustrate the 
cholera in Paris. These cadaverous paintings are, 
those on the right by Antonio Zanchi, those on the 
left by Pietro Negri. 

It is also in the Scuole di San Rocco that is to be 
seen the masterpiece of Tintoretto, that fertile and 
uneven artist who passed from the sublime to the 
wretched with prodigious facility. The immense 
painting represents in full development the bloody 
drama of Calvary. It occupies the whole of the end 
of a large hall. ‘The sky, painted, no doubt, with that 
blue Egyptian ash which has played such unpleasant 


tricks on the artists of that day, has most unpleasant 


259 


ALEK? EE SESSA ete eettse 
TR AW REISS fl No Aa 


false tones, which certainly could not have existed 
before that deceitful colour had darkened. It has also 
curiously darkened the background of the “ Pilgrims at 
Emmaus ” by Paolo Veronese. The defect is quickly 
forgotten, however, so quickly do the groups in the 
foreground attract the attention of the spectator after 
he has looked at the picture fora moment. The Holy 
Women around the cross form the most profoundly 
despairing group that human grief can dream of}; one 
of them, wrapped in her mantle, is prostrate, and sobs 
in the most pathetic and desolate fashion. A negro, 
who is endeavouring to raise the cross to which is 
fixed one of the thieves, is standing on tiptoe with an 
awkward, unnatural motion, but his figure is painted, 
like all the others, so vehemently and so furiously that 
you cannot help admiring it. Never did Rubens, 
Rembrandt, Géricault, or Delacroix in their most 
feverish and turbulent sketches, attain such dash, such 
rage, such ferocity. On this occasion Tintoretto fully 
deserved his surname Robusto. It is impossible to 
carry vigour farther. It is violent, exaggerated, melo- 
dramatic, but possessed of a supreme quality, strength. 
This painting, which shines with the splendour of 


sovereign art, makes one forgive the artist many acres 


260 


dob bbb bb bbb bb 


ere RO ripen Ne DS CW OL EF 


of the smoky, black canvases which one meets with 
in every palace, church, and gallery, and which are the 
work of a dyer rather than of a painter. “The “ Cruci- 


> 


fixion ”’ is dated 1565. 

Before leaving, a very beautiful ‘‘ Christ’ by Titian 
must be looked at, for its deep expression of grief, and 
also some lovely altar doors carved in 1765 by Phili- 
berti with exquisite delicacy and amazing perfection of 
work. ‘These carvings, which are precious in spite of 
their modern date, represent different events in the life 
of San Rocco. “The wood-work in the upper hall is 
also very remarkable, but if we are to admire every- 


thing, we shall never get through. 


261 


NE day I was wandering at haphazard through 
() the unfrequented parts of Venice, for I like 
to learn something else about cities than 

that side of them which is drawn, described, and told 
by everybody, and I am always curious, having paid 
my legitimate tribute of admiration, to raise the mask 
of monuments which every city wears on its face by 
way of concealing its ugliness and its wretchedness. 
From lane to lane, by dint of crossing bridges and 
losing my way, I got beyond the Cannaregio into a 
Venice which is quite unlike the pretty Venice of 
water-colour paintings. Half-ruinous houses with ° 
windows boarded up, deserted squares, empty places 
on which clothes were drying upon cords and ragged 
children were playing, barren shores on which ship- 
wrights were calking boats amid thick clouds of smoke ; 
abandoned churches smashed by Austrian shells, some 


of which had burst even at this extreme distance; 


262 


THE GHETTO—MURANO—VICENZA 
canals with green, stagnant water in which floated old 
mattresses and vegetable detritus, formed an ensemble 
of wretchedness, solitude, and neglect which made a 
painful impression upon me. Artificial towns con- 
quered from the sea, like Venice, need riches and 
splendour; they require all the luxury of art and the 
magnificence of architecture to make up for the loss 
of nature. Ifa palace by Scammozzi, with its marble 
balconies, its pillars, and staircases, looks well on 
the banks of the Grand Canal, nothing, on the other 
hand, is more saddening than a wretched house falling 
to pieces between sky and water, and on the founda- 
tions of which crawl water-beetles and crabs. 

I had been walking for some time through a 
labyrinth of lanes which often brought me back to 
my starting-point. I noticed with surprise the ab- 
sence of all religious emblems at the corners of the 
streets. There were no chapels, no Madonnas adorned 
with ex-votos, no carved crosses on the squares, no 
effigies of saints, not one of the outward signs of 
devotion which are so frequent in the other quarters of 
the city. Everything looked strange, foreign, and mys- 
terious. Curious forms glided furtively and slowly 


along the walls with an air of terror. Nor were the 


263 


LekebLELLAALLAELALLALALAL ALS 
TRAWE WS (TN? PAsker 


. faces of the Venetian type. Hooked noses, black eyes, 
sallow complexions, thin cheeks, pointed chins, all 
told of a different race. The wretched, shiny, dirty 
rags which these people wore were particularly sordid, 
and denoted cupidity rather than poverty, an avaricious 
wretchedness voluntary rather than involuntary, and 
calculated to inspire contempt rather than pity. 

The lanes grew narrower and narrower; the houses 
rose like babels of superimposed hovels, as if in search 
of air that could be breathed and light to be reached 
above the shadow and the filth, in which crawled 
deformed beings. Several of these houses were nine 
stories high, —nine stories of rags, filth, and vile in- 
dustries. All the forgotten diseases of the lazar-houses 
of the East seemed to cling to these deathly walls; 
the damp marked them with plague spots as if they 
were gangrened, the saltpetre efflorescence looked 
like the rugosities, warts, and boils of plague patients ; 
the plaster broke away, like a diseased skin, in scaly 
pellicles. | There was not a_ single perpendicular 
line; everything was out of plumb. The windows, 
blear-eyed, blind, or squinting, had not one whole 

pane; pieces of paper bound up as best they could 


the wounds of the glass. Poles like withered arms 


264 


deco cles ch hob he abcch bbb obcb bh heh 


ere em whe ore we one wre woe we 


THE GHETTO—MURANO--VICENZA 


shook indescribable rags above the passer-by ; mattresses 
hideously soiled were endeavouring to dry in the sun 
on the edge of open, black windows. Here and there 
the remains of a cement formed of broken bricks and 
plaster gave to some of the facades less decrepit than 
the others an unwholesome redness like that which 
marks the cheek-bones of a consumptive patient or of 
low prostitute who has rouged her face. These 
houses were not among the least ugly and the least 
repulsive; they seemed to be health in death, vice 
in misery. Which is the more horrible, a perfectly 
livid body or one with its yellow face rubbed with 
vermilion ? | 

Ruinous bridges, their arches bending like old men 
bowed down by the weight of years, and ready to fall 
into the water, connected these masses of shapeless 
hovels, separated by stagnant, muddy canals, black as 
ink, green as sanies, filled with filth and detritus of all 
kinds which the tide was powerless to carry off, for it 
could not stir the heavy, thick, stagnant water, which 
resembled a Stygian swamp or a river of hell. 

At last I came upon a broad square, fairly paved, in 
the centre of which showed the open mouth of a cis- 


tern. At one of the corners rose an edifice of a more 


265 


HAELAALLALLLEALALLALL ALL ALS 


DRAW GAS) NA 


human aspect, over the door of which was an inscrip- 
tion carved in Oriental letters, which I recognised as 
being Jewish characters. The riddle was solved. 
This fetid, purulent quarter was simply the Ghetto, 
the Jewry of Venice, which has preserved the sordid- 
ness characteristic of the Middle Ages. 

Probably, if one were to enter these rotten, cracked 
houses rayed with loathsome mould, one might find in 
them, as in the Jewries of old, Rebeccas and Rachels 
of radiant Oriental beauty, stiff with gold and gems 
like Hindoo idols, seated on the most costly Smyrna 
carpets amid vases of gold and wondrous riches heaped 
together by paternal avarice; for the poverty of the 
Jew is merely external. If Christians indulge in sham 
luxury, Israelites indulge in sham poverty. Like cer- 
tain insects, they roll themselves in the dirt and turn 
mud-colour in order to escape their persecutors. This 
habit, acquired in the Middle Ages, has never yet been 
lost by them, although nothing justifies it at present, 
but they keep it up with the unbending obstinacy of 
their race. 

The building with the Hebraic inscription was a 
synagogue. I entered it. A fine staircase led me up 


into a large, oblong room wainscoted with well carved 


266 


the ea oe oe oe oe oe ee ected che cde oo of chee oe oo 


ore ae ote 


THE GHETTO—MURANO—VICENZA 


woodwork and hung with splendid red damask of the 
Indies. The Talmud, just like the Koran, forbids its 
sectaries to reproduce the human form, and considers 
art an idolatrous practice; consequently the synagogue 
is as bare as a mosque or a Protestant temple, and can- 
not equal the splendour of Catholic cathedrals, however 
wealthy the faithful may be. Jewish worship, which 
is wholly an abstraction, is poor to the eye; —a pulpit 
for the rabbi who explains the Scriptures, a gallery 
for the singers who chant the psalms, a tabernacle in 
which are enclosed the Tables of the Law, and that 
is all. 

I noticed in the Synagogue a great number of brass 
chandeliers adorned with balls and the arms twisted 
in the Dutch taste, such as are often seen in paintings 
by Gerard Dow and Mieris, especially in the painting 
of “The Paralytic,” which engraving has made so 
popular. Probably these chandeliers came from Am- 
sterdam, the northern Venice, which also contains 
many Jews. ‘The superabundance of illumination is 
not surprising, for seven-branched candlesticks, lamps, 
and torches recur constantly in the Bible. 

The Jewish cemetery is at the Lido. The sand 


covers it, vegetation grows over it, and children do 


207 


TRAVELS IN ITALY 


not scruple to trample and dance on the overturned or 
broken tombstones. When they are reproached with 
their irreverence, they artlessly reply, “They are only 
Jews.” In their eyes a Jew and a dog are one and 
the same thing. ‘The field is not a cemetery, it is a 
common sewer. In Spain, at Puerto de Santa Maria, 
I met with something of the same sort. A negro, an 
attendant in the bull ring, had just been killed by a 
bull. He had been carried away, and I was much 
moved. ‘Don’t worry,” said a neighbour to me, “it 
is only a negro.” Yet, Jew or negro, they are men. 
But how long will it be before we can teach that fact 
to the children of barbarians? 

The Christians sleep more peacefully on the small 
island of San Michele on the way to Murano. They 
are laid under the salt sand, which must be sweet to 
the bones of a Venetian, and the gondolas salute their 
crosses as they pass. 

Murano has fallen from its antique splendour. It is 
no longer, as formerly, the wizard of imitation pearls, 
mirrors, and glassware. Chemistry has revealed its 
secrets ; it no longer possesses the monopoly of beau- 
tiful bevelled mirrors, of tall glasses, of delicate flasks 


with milky spirals, of crystal balls that look like 
268 


THE GHETTO—MURANO—VICENZA 


tears of the sea, of glass beads which clink on the loin- 
cloths of Africans. Bohemia does just as good work, 
Choisy-le-Roi does better; art at Murano has remained 
stationary amid universal progress. I visited one of 
the glass-works where were being manufactured small 
coloured beads. 

Murano contains another curiosity, which I was 
shown with some pride,—a horse, an animal more 
rare in Venice than the unicorn, the griffin, the chimera, 
or the flying ram of nightmares. In vain would 
Richard call, “A horse! a horse! my kingdom for 


]?? 


a horse I rather enjoyed meeting that worthy 
quadruped, the existence of which I was beginning to 
forget. Meeting with it made me somewhat homesick 
for the mainland, and J returned to Venice very 
thoughtful. It struck me that it was a long while 
since I had seen plains or mountains, cultivated fields, 
roads bordered by trees, streets traversed by carriages ; 
it seemed to me that nothing was pleasanter than the 


cracking of whips and the jingling of the bells of 


post-horses. 


269 


oh feo tech he decks ede che decbe tech cbecdecdecbcbeah ob check 
DBA ELS: TN Te ee 


téete¢¢e¢e¢ettetettttttttthe 
1 Eel oid be Jad bape 


HE season was growing late, my stay in 

| Venice had been prolonged beyond the 
limit which I had settled on in the general 

plan of my trip. I delayed my departure from week to 
week, from day to day, and always had some good rea- 
son for remaining. In vain did light vapours begin to 
rise in the morning over the lagoon, or sudden showers 
compel me to take refuge in a church; in vain when I 
wandered in the moonlight on the Grand Canal did the 
chill night-air force me sometimes to close the win- 
dow of the gondola, —I insisted on setting at naught 
the warnings of autumn. I was always remembering 
a palazzo, a church, or a picture which I had not seen. 
I must visit, before leaving Venice, the white church of 
Santa Maria Formosa, made illustrious by the famous 
Santa Barbara, so splendidly posed, so heroically beau- 
tiful, which Palma Vecchio painted; and the palazzo 
of Bianca Capello, with its remembrances of a love- 


legend thoroughly Venetian and full of romantic 


270 


S$eeeeeeettetetetttere 
PADUA 


ie 
i 
> 


charm; the strange and splendid church of San Zac- 
caria, in which there are a marvellous altar-piece bril- 
liant with gold by Antonio Vivarini, given by Helena 
Foscari and Marina Donato, and the tomb of the 
great sculptor Alessandro Vittoria, — 


«<< Oui vivens vivos duxit de marmore vultus, — ”’ 
> 


a splendidly conceited epitaph, justified for once by a 
world of statues. 

Sometimes it was something else, — an island I had 
forgotten, Mazorbo or Torcello, which has a curious 
Byzantine basilica and Roman antiquities, or a pic- 
turesque facade on an unfrequented canal which I[ 
must sketch, —a thousand reasons of this kind, every 
one excellent, but which were not the real ones, al- 
though I did my best to believe they were. I yielded, 
in spite of myself, to the melancholy which seizes 
upon the most determined traveller when he is to 
leave, perhaps forever, a country he has long desired 
to see, a place where he has spent beautiful days and 
lovelier nights. 

There are certain cities which one leaves as if they 
were a beloved friend, with swelling breast and tearful 
eyes; chosen countries where one is more easily happy 


than elsewhere, to which one dreams of returning to 


271 


TRAV) Ege SC Nal Asie 


die, and which shine in the sadness and the troubles of 
life like an oasis, an E] Dorado; divine cities where the 
weary are at rest and to which remembrances fly back- 
obstinately. Granada was for me one of these celes- 
tial Jerusalems which glow under a golden sun in the 
blue mirage of distance. I had thought of it since 
childhood, I left it with tears, and I very often regret 
it. Venice shall be for me another Granada, perhaps 
even more regretted. 

Has it ever happened to you to have but a few days 
to spend with some beloved person? You look at her 
long, fixedly, sorrowfully, to grave her features deeply 
in your mind; you look at her in every way, study her 
in every light, notice every particular sign, —the little 
mole near the mouth, the dimple on the cheek or the 
hand; you note the inflections and the harmony of her 
voice; you try to preserve as much as you can of the 
adored face, which absence will take from you and 
which you will never again see but in your heart. 
You cannot be apart, you must be together up to the 
last moment; even sleep seems to be stolen from these 
precious hours, and the talk is endless as you sit hand 
in hand unaware that the light of the lamp is paling 
and the gray dawn filtering through the curtains. 


272 


ene ete oF wTe eTe oTe 


This was just my feeling with regard to Venice. 
As the moment of departure approached, it became 
dearer to me, its full value revealed itself as I was 
about to lose it. I reproached myself with not having 
turned my stay to better account; I bitterly regretted a 
few hours of laziness, a few cowardly concessions to 
the enervating influence of the sirocco. It seemed to me 
that I might have seen more, taken more notes, made 
more sketches, trusted less to my memory; and yet, 
Heaven knows that I conscientiously fulfilled my duty 
as a tourist. J was to be met with everywhere, in 
churches, in galleries, at the Academy of the Fine Arts, 
on the Piazza San Marco, in the Palace of the Doges, 
in the Library. My weary gondoliers begged for rest. 
I scarcely took time to swallow an ice at the Café 
Florian or a soup of mussels and a pasticcio of polenta at 
the Gasthoff San Gallo or at the tavern of the Black Hat. 
In six weeks I had worn out three pairs of eyeglasses, a 
pair of opera-glasses, and lost a telescope. Never did any 
one indulge in such an orgy of sightseeing; I looked at 
things fourteen hours a day without a stop. If I had 
dared, I would have continued my visiting by torchlight. 

During the last few days it became a regular fever 


with me. I made a general round, a review, on the 


18 y ly fi 


ttetbebebeetrttedbbttttttes 
TGR AV@EIES py luNg Tear 


dead run, with the quick, sharp glance of a man who 
knows the thing he looks at and goes straight to what 
he wants. Like painters who ink the drawings which 
they do not wish rubbed out, I strengthened by a new 
remembrance the thousand sketches in my memory. 
I saw again the beautiful Ducal Palace, built purposely 
for a stage scene in a drama or an opera, with its great 
rose-coloured walls, its white lacework, its two stories 
of pillars, its Arab trefoils; wonderful San Marco, the 
Saint Sophia of the West, the colossal reliquary of 
Venetian civilisation, a gilded cavern, diapered with 
mosaics, a vast heaping up of jasper, porphyry, alabas- 
ter, and fragments of antiquity, a pirate cathedral en. 
riched with the spoils of the universe; the Campanile, 
which bears so high within the heavens the golden 
angel, protector of Venice, and guards at its feet Sanso- 
vino’s Loggetta carved like a gem; the Clock Tower, 
gold and blue, on which, on a great dial, meander the 
black and white hours; the Library, Athenian in its 
elegance, crowned with graceful mythological statues, 
sweet remembrance of neighbouring Greece; and the 
Grand Canal, bordered by a double row of Gothic, 
Moorish, Renaissance, and rococo palaces, whose ever 


varying facades amaze one by the inexhaustible fancy 


274 


bebebettebtttttedttecetes 
PADUA 


and the perpetual invention of the details, which it 
would take more than a man’s whole life to study; a 
splendid gallery in which is exhibited the genius of 
Sansovino, Scamozzi, Pietro Lombardi, Palladio, Lon- 
ghena, Bergamasco, Rossi, Tremignana, and other 
wondrous architects, to say nothing of the unknown 
and humble workmen of the Middle Ages, who are not 
the least admirable. JI went in my gondola from the 
Dogana Point to Quintavalle Point in order to fix for- 
ever in my memory that fairy sight which painting is 
as powerless to render as are words, and I devoured 
with desperate attention the mirage of the Fata Mor- 
gana about to vanish forever so far as I was concerned. 

Now, as I am about to bring to a close this account, 
already too long, perchance, it seems to me that I have 
told nothing and that I have but feebly expressed my 
enthusiasm and given but a poor copy of my splendid 
models. Every monument, every church, every gallery 
calls for a volume, and I can scarcely afford a page. 
Yet I have spoken only of what is visible; I have 
avoided removing the dust from the old chronicles, 
reviving forgotten remembrances, peopling with their 
former inhabitants the deserted palaces; — for that 


would have been a life work. 


275 


theese tbebetetteeteeeeee 
UR AV BASS? SEN Sb eo 


And now, at any cost, 1 must go. Padua, the city 
of Ezzelino and of Angelo, calls me. Farewell, dear 
Campo San Moisé, where I have spent such lovely 
hours; farewell to the sunsets of the Salute, the moon- 
light effects on the Grand Canal, the beautiful, golden- 
haired girls of the Public Gardens, the pleasant dinners 
under the vines of Quintavalle! Farewell to the 
glorious art and the magnificent painting, to the splen- 
did palaces of the Middle Ages, to Palladio’s Greek 
facades! Farewell to the doves of San Marco and the 
gulls of the lagoon, to the sea baths on the Lido shore, 
to the trips in gondolas. Farewell forever, and if for- 
ever, still forever fare ye well! The railway has 
carried us off, and already the Venus of the Adriatic 
has plunged her rose and white body within the azure 
sea. 

Padua is an ancient city which looks well against the 
horizon, with its belfries,; domes, and old walls on 
which swarms a multitude of lizards. Placed too near 
a centre which draws all life to itself, Padua is a dead 
city, and looks almost deserted. Its streets, bordered 
by two rows of low arcades, are sad, and nothing 
recalls the elegant and graceful Venetian architecture. 


The heavy, massive buildings have a somewhat sour 


276 


seriousness, and the sombre porches at the foot of the 
houses look like black mouths yawning with weariness. 

I was taken to a huge inn, probably a palace in 
olden days, the great remains of which, dishonoured 
by vulgar use, must of yore have seen better company. 
It was a journey from the hall to my room through 
numberless stairs and passages; a map or Ariadne’s 
thread was needed to find the way. 

My windows opened upon a fair prospect. The 
Brachiglione flowed at the foot of the wall, its banks 
lined with old houses and long walls, above which rose 
trees. Lines of stakes from which fishermen cast 
their lines with the patience characteristic of the breed 
in every country, huts with nets, and clothes drying at 
the windows, formed a pretty subject for a water-colour 
drawing. 

After dinner I went to the Café Pedrocchi, famous 
throughout Italy for its magnificence. It is classical, 
monumental, full of pillars and columns, of ova and 
palmettos, in the style of Percier and Fontaine, all very 
large and very much in marble. The most curious 
things about it are great geographical maps which 
replace hangings and represent the different countries 


of the world on a large scale. “This somewhat pedan- 


27] 


abe che oh of obs aby obs obs obs obs of cboabs che ohn ob» nota abe ob ob ole of obec 


ow ete om ve ae wie wie aye we we we 


TRAV BASS oLiNG Asie 


tic decoration gives an academic air to the room, and 
one would not be surprised to see a desk in the 
place of the counter, with a professor in his gown 
instead of the master of the café. But as Padua is a 
university town, it is quite proper that the students 
should be able to continue their studies while drinking 
their coffee or eating their ices. 

The University of Padua was famous formerly. In 
the thirteenth century eighteen thousand youths, a na- 
tion of students, followed the courses of its learned 
professors, among whom later was Galileo, one of 
whose vertebrz is preserved as a relic, —a relic of a 
martyr who suffered for truth. ‘The facade of the 
University building is very handsome; four Doric 
columns give it a severe and monumental aspect; but 
the class-rooms are empty and scarcely one thousand 
students now frequent them. 

The next day I proceeded to visit the cathedral dedi- 
cated to Saint Anthony, who enjoys at Padua the posi- 
tion of Saint Januarius at Naples. He is the genius 
loci, the saint venerated above all others. If Cazenova 
may be believed, he was in the habit of working no 
less than thirty miracles a day. Certainly he deserved 


his surname Thaumaturgist, but his prodigious zeal has 


278 


REALL ALLLALLALALE AL SEA LL 
PADUA 


considerably fallen off. However, the credit of the 
saint has in no wise diminished, and so many masses 
are ordered at his altar that the priests at the cathedral 
and the days of the year are insufficient to say them. 
To settle up matters, the Pope has permitted that at 
the end of the year masses shall be said every one of 
which is as good as a thousand, and in this way Saint 
Anthony does not disappoint his faithful worshippers. 

On the square near the cathedral rises a fine bronze 
equestrian statue by Donatello, the first cast since the 
days of antiquity, representing Gattomelato, a chief of 
condottieril, a brigand who unquestionably does not 
deserve such an honour; but the artist has given him 
a splendid port and a proud look, with his Roman 
emperor’s baton, and that is quite enough. 

The church of San Antonio is composed of a num- 
ber of cupolas and bell towers, and a great brick facade 
with triangular pediment, above which rises a gallery 
_ with ogees and pillars. ‘Three small doors cut in the 
high arcade correspond to the three naves. The in- 
terior is excessively rich, and is filled with chapels and 
tombs in different styles. It contains specimens of the 
art of various epochs, from the naive, religious, and 


delicate art of the Middle Ages to the most extraordi- 


a7 


teteeetteettet ett tttttdteh 


wo ewe ofo ate 


TUR AAV eb GOING LT Ag ee 


nary fancies of the rococo style. ‘The cloister is paved 
with funeral slabs, and the walls disappear under the 
monuments which cover them. I read a number of 
the epitaphs, which were very fine, the Italians having 
preserved the secret of lapidary Latin. 

Santa Giustinia is a huge church with a bare facade 
and an interior so plain as to be dull and mean. Good 
taste is certainly desirable, but not too much of it, and 
I must say I prefer to such bareness the mad exuber- 
ance and the exaggerated scrolls of the rococo style. 
A fine altar-piece by Paolo Veronese relieves the 
nudity. If the church is dull and characterless, the 
same cannot be said of the two giant monsters which 
guard it, lying on the steps like faithful mastiffs. 
Never did Japanese monsters present a more terri- 
fying aspect than these fantastic animals, which are 
something like hideous griffins, with the hind-quarters 
of lions, the wings of eagles, and stupid, fierce heads, 
ending in beaks pierced with oblique nostrils like those of 
tortoises. ‘hese monstrous animals press to their breasts, 
between their talons, a warrior on horseback wearing 
medizval armour, and crush him with slow pressure, 
with a vague look and without troubling about the 


convulsive efforts of the myrmidon thus stifled. 


280 


What is the meaning of the knight caught with his 
steed in the dread claws of these crouching monsters ? 
What myth is concealed under that sombre sculptural 
fancy? Do these groups illustrate a legend, or are 
they simply the sinister hieroglyphs of fatality? I 
could not make out, and no one could or would tell 
me. The other day, on glancing over the album 
which Prince Soltykoff brought back from India, I 
found in the propylaa of a Hindoo pagoda exactly 
similar monsters crushing an armed man against their 
breast. Whatever may be the real meaning of these 
terrifying groups, they recall confusedly vague remem- 
brances of cosmogonic combats, battles between the 
two principles of good and evil, — Ahriman overcom- 
ing Ormuzd, Siva overthrowing Vishnu. Later on, 
under the porch of the cathedral at Ferrara, I again 
saw these two chimeras, but this time it was lions they 
were crushing. 

There is one thing one must not neglect to do in 
Padua, and that is to pay a visit to the Madonna dell’ 
Arena, a church situated within a rich and luxuriant 
garden, and which would certainly never be found if 
one were not told of it. The whole of the interior 


was painted by Giotto. No gallery, no ribbing, no 


281 


choy feo he be che oe ch te cbc eben cbc cde cde ce be shee 


wre eve yn wre 


WOR A Vibes CLANS eee 


architectural division breaks the vast tapestry of the 
frescoes. The general aspect is of a sweet, starry 
azure, like a beautiful, calm sky; blue is the keynote 
and gives the local tone. Thirty compartments of 
great size, separated by mere lines, contain scenes of 
the life of the Virgin and of her divine Son in detail. 
They look like miniatures in a gigantic missal. The 
personages, through an artless anachronism most pre- 
cious to historians, are dressed in the costume of 
Giotto’s day. 

Below these compositions, charming in their suavity 
and exhibiting the purest religious feeling, a painted 
plinth exhibits the seven capital sins symbolised ingen- 
uously, and other allegorical figures in excellent style. 
A “ Paradise” and a “ Hell,” subjects which greatly 
preoccupied the artists of that day, complete this mar- 
vellous ensemble. ‘There are quaint and touching de- 
tails in these paintings: children emerge from their 
little coffins and ascend to Paradise with eager jy, 
springing forward to play upon the flowery meads of 
the celestial gardens; others hold out their hands to 
their half-resuscitated mothers. I noticed that all the 
devils and vices were stout, while the angels and _vir- 


tues were slender and thin. The painter thus denoted 


282 


the preponderance of matter in some, and of mind in 
others. 

Let me note here a picturesque and physiological re- 
mark. ‘The type of the Paduan women differs greatly 
from that of the Venetians. In spite of the nearness 
of the two cities, the Paduan beauty is more severe and 
more classical. ‘Thick brown hair, well marked eye- 
brows, a serious, dark glance, a pale olive complexion, 
a somewhat full oval, recall the main features of the 
Lombard race. The black cape which these lovely 
women wear gives them, as they glide slowly along the 
deserted arcades, a proud and shy look which contrasts 
with the faint smile and the easy Venetian grace. 

On the Piazza Salone stands the Palace of Justice, a 
great building in the Moorish style, with galleries, pil- 
lars, and denticulated crenellations, which contains the 
largest room in the world perhaps, and recalls the Pal- 
ace of the Doges at Venice. At the Scuole del Santo 
there are glorious frescoes by Titian, the only ones 
which this painter is known to have executed. ‘There 
also are shown the instruments of torture, the racks, stra- 
pados, pincers, boots, toothed wheels, saws, axes, which 
were used upon the victims of Ezzelino, the most 


famous tyrant that ever lived, by the side of whom 


283 


ae abe obs obs oe ob ole abby abe abe ob bn abe obo ells obs abv ol che oe obs ofc cle ofle 


ere ee te ate ere ote je ove ore oe Fe 


TRAWEAGS GUND GAG 


Angelo is an angel of light. I had a letter to the am- 
ateur who looks after this curious collection fit for an 
executioner’s museum. I did not find him, to my 
great regret, and I left the same afternoon for Rovigo, 
quitting regretfully the delightful Lombardo-Venetian 
kingdom, which lacks nothing save liberty. 


KLEE DEA EPPS eA SLE ets 


i ee eae Sal NG Al Abe 


kktbeebetbbehbbbddhdbbhbche 
FERRARA 


N omnibus took us in a few hours from 

Padua to Rovigo, which we reached in the 

evening. While waiting for supper, I wan- 

dered through the streets of the city lighted by a silvery 
moon which enabled me to make out the outline of the 
monuments. Low arcades, like those of the old Place 
Royale in Paris, border the streets, and the alternations 
of light and shadow formed long cloisters which that 
evening recalled the effect of the stage setting of the 
Nuns’ act in “ Robert le Diable.”” A few stray pass- 
ers-by glided silently along like shadows; sorrowful 
dogs bayed to the moon, and the city seemed asleep. 
Every window was dark, with the exception of a few 
cafés still lighted, in which customers, with a weary, 
somnolent look, were eating ices and drinking coffee or 
a glass of water, slowly, wisely, methodically, often 
stopping to read a meaningless newspaper article, like 
people who have lots of time to waste and try to get 


along until it is time to go to bed. 


285 


choo ob abs os be ce oe obs he ecbecde che bach obe eof ee ee abe 


ore oe Cre ore ofe re Fe Me OTe ene 


TRAN AIS DING? [eters 


The trip from Rovigo to Ferrara is in no wise. pic- 
turesque,—a flat country with cultivated fields and 
Northern trees, exactly like a French department. 
The Po, with its yellow waters, is crossed; the low, 
bare shores faintly recalling those of the Guadalquivir 
below Seville. The turbulent Eridano, lacking the 
tribute of the melting snow, seemed calm and peaceful 
enough at the time. 

Ferrara rises solitary in the centre of a flat country, 
which is rich rather than picturesque. On entering by 
the main street which leads to the square, the aspect 
of the city is imposing and monumental. A palace, 
reached by great steps, stands on the corner of this vast 
space. I suppose it must be the Court-house or City 
Hall, for people of all kinds came in and went out of 
the great doors. 

While I was wandering in the streets, satisfying my 
curiosity at the expense of my appetite and stealing 
from the sixty minutes given us for breakfast forty to 
regale my eyes and fulfil my duty as a tourist, a strange 
apparition rose suddenly before me, as unexpectedly 
as a ghost at midday. It was a sort of spectre 
masked with a black mask, its head covered with a 


black hood, its body wrapped in a gown, or rather a 


286 


= = = J tS = 


domino, braided with red, with a red cross on the shoul- 
der, a brass crucifix hung around the neck, and a red 
sash. It rattled in silence a small box in which 
money was jingling. ‘This scarecrow, which had noth- 
ing living about it but the eyes which shone through 
the holes in its mask, shook two or three times before 
me its box, in which, terrified, I dropped a handful of 
bajoccht, not knowing for what charitable work this lu- 
gubrious figure was begging. He resumed his way with- 
out a word, with the most sinister, funereal clinking of 
iron and money, holding out his box, in which every- 
body hastened to drop some small coin. I inquired to 
what order belonged this phantom, more terrifying 
than the monks and ascetics of Zurbaran, who thus 
walked about like a horrid, nocturnal vision in the 
bright sunshine, realising in the street the nightmare 
of bad nights. I was told that he was a penitent of 
the Brotherhood of Death, begging money for the 
purchase of coffins and for the purpose of saying 
masses for poor devils who were to be shot down 
that very day,—brigands or Republicans, I have 
really forgotten which. These penitents have taken 
on themselves the sad and charitable task of accom- 


panying those who are condemned to death to the 


287 


che che abe che aba che he he he ot cde cde ech ch cheb bebe oho oleate 
TR ASV GELS: clan ae Teagan 


place of execution, to be with them in their last mo- 
ments, to remove from the scaffold the mutilated body, 
to place it in a bier, and to bury it in a Christian man- 
ner. It is townspeople who devote themselves through 
piety to these painful functions, and thus mingle a ten- 
der, though vague and masked element with the cold, 
implacable sacrifices of justice. These spectres seem 
to stand between the victim and the executioner. 
They are the timid protest made by humanity. Often 
these Sisters of Mercy of the scaffold turn faint and 
are more troubled than the condemned man himself. 

Italy has preserved largely the methods of Doctor 
Sangrado, and the breed of doctors whose system is 
developed in kitchen Latin in the ceremony of the 
‘“¢ Malade imaginaire ” has not yet disappeared. I say 
this with due reservation of talents of the first order. 
There are in the Peninsula numerous duplicates of 
Messieurs Purgon, Diafoirus, Macrotin, Desfonandrés, 
and other doctors of Moliére’s creation. People are 
bled severely for the least indisposition. The barbers 
are the operators, so on their shops are seen paintings 
most surgically fantastic, and in these bloody subjects 
the painters do not hesitate at any violence of tone, 


and imagine contrasts which amaze colourists. 


288 


che heals oho ob abs abe abe abe ahs be deals cbr abr abe ef ade ate clea ole abe oe 


It was market day, which gave some animation to 
the city, usually so dull. I saw nothing characteristic 
in the way of costumes. Uniformity is overrunning 
everything. [he peasants of the neighbourhood of 
Ferrara are very like ours, but for the Southern bril- 
liancy of their black eyes and a certain pride of port 
which reminds you that you are on classical ground. 
Autumn products, grapes, pumpkins, pimentoes, toma- 
toes, mixed with coarse pottery and rustic household 
utensils, were heaped up on the square, amid which were 
groups of people talking and buying. A few oxcarts, 
much less primitive than those of Spain, a few asses with 
wooden pack-saddles, were waiting with melancholy 
patience until their masters had finished their business 
and were ready to returnhome. The oxen, lying down, 
were peacefully chewing the cud; the asses were grazing 
the blades of grass growing between the paving-stones. 

One thing peculiar to Italy is the open-air money- 
changers. Their outfit is exceedingly simple, and con- 
sists of a stool and a small table on which are ranged 
piles of scudt, bajocchi, and other coins. ‘The changer, 
crouched like a dragon, watches his little treasure with 
a restless, yellow eye which exhibits constant dread of 


thieves, who are not kept away by any gratings. 


19 289 


ttbebebettttttedbttebdbbts 
DRAYV TEES jl Navigate 

The Cathedral, the facade of which rises on this 
square, is in the Italian Gothic style, so inferior, in my 
opinion, to Northern Gothic. The portal contains 
some curious details. ‘The pillars, instead of resting 
on bases like ordinary pillars, rest upon chimeras in the 
style of those of the portal of Santa Giustinia at Padua. 
These heavy, crushed chimeras revenge themselves for 
the pain they suffer by tearing lions in the Ninevite 
style, caught in their claws. ‘These caryatid monsters 
writhe horribly under the enormous pressure and are 
positively painful to look at. 

The castle of the former Dukes of Ferrara, which is 
a little farther on, has a fine feudal aspect. It consists 
of a vast group of towers bound together by high walls, 
topped by projecting lookouts, and rising from a great 
moat full of water, which is crossed by a bridge closed 
to the public. Let not, however, what I have just 
said lead the reader to imagine a castle like those which 
bristle on the banks of the Rhine. Italian Gothic has 
not at all the same appearance as ours; no mould- 
covered stones, no mossy statues, no curtains of ivy 
falling over old, broken balconies, no traces of that rust 
of time which to us is inseparable from the monuments 


of the Middle Ages. Italian Gothic, in spite of its 


290 


ches cbs ohe obs he he oe che cde eect ecb eof cob cde oe oh choo 


OTe we eTe eye oe 


FERRARA 


age, appears to be brand-new. It is white and rose, 
pretty rather than solemn, somewhat troubadour; in 
short, recalling the feudal clocks of the days of the 
Restoration. The castle of the Dukes of Ferrara, 
which is built of bricks and of stones turned red by the 
sun, has a bright, juvenile air which detracts from its 
imposing effect. It resembles too closely the stage- 
setting of a melodrama. 

It was in this castle that lived the famous Lucrezia 
Borgia, whom Victor Hugo has depicted as so mon- 
strous, while Ariosto speaks of her as a model of chas- 
tity, grace, and virtue, —the fair Lucrezia, who wrote 
letters breathing the purest love, and some of whose 
silky, golden hair Lord Byron possessed. There 
occurred the dramas of Tasso, of Ariosto, and of Gua- 
rini; there were held the brilliant orgies, mingling 
poisons and murders, which were characteristic of that 
period in learned, artistic, refined, and wicked Italy. 

It is proper to visit piously the very doubtful cell 
wherein T’asso, crazed by love and grief, spent so many 
years, according to the poetic legend which has arisen 
since his day. I had no time to do so, and I did not 
regret it much. The cell, of which I have a very 


accurate drawing before me, has only its four walls 


291 


he obs obs abe obs obs ole ote abe obs ectocde tobe chs checbe cheated oh cools 


ee ee ome eTs one ore are OTe ote GO WFO CTO VTE ee OTe UFO 


DRA VéHASS }T4NVGl sie 


with a low ceiling. At the back there is a window 


grated with thick bars and an iron-studded door with 
heavy bolts. It is most unlikely that in this obscure 
hole, covered with cobwebs, Tasso was able to work 
over his poems, to compose sonnets, to trouble about 
the details of his dress, such as the quality of the vel- 
vet of his beretta and the silk of his stockings, or 
to worry about cookery either, such as the kind of 
sugar which he wanted for his salad, that served him 
not being fine enough, in his opinion. Nor did | 
see Ariosto’s house,— another obligatory pilgrimage 
Apart from the little credit which can be given to 
these unauthenticated traditions, to these characterless 
relics, I would rather seek for Ariosto in the *¢ Orlando 


> 


Furioso,” and for Tasso in * Jerusalem Delivered” or 
Goethe’s splendid drama. 

Life in Ferrara is concentrated on the Piazza 
Nuove, in front of the church, and around the castle. 
Life has not yet withdrawn from the heart of the city, 
but as you go farther from that point, the pulsations 
grow weaker, paralysis begins, death grows; silence, 
solitude, and grass take possession of the streets. You 
feel that you are wandering through a Thebaid peopled 


by the shadows of the past, from which the living have 


292 


wre oF we oFe wTe ewe ore 


FERRARA 


ch oboe feo abe abe ob oh ab doce che cfc lee ob ce cafe abo a 


disappeared like water that has dried up. There is 
nothing so sad as to see the body of a city falling 
slowly into dust in the sunshine and the rain; human 
bodies at least are buried. 

Bologna is a city with arcaded streets, like most cities 
in this part of Italy. They are useful as a shelter 
from the rain and sunshine, but they transform the 
streets into long cloisters, absorb the light, and give the 
towns a cold and melancholy aspect. 

I had a letter of recommendation for Rossini, who 
unfortunately was absent and wouid return only a few 
days later. 

I followed at chance a street which led me safely 
into the square, where have been leaning for years 
without ever falling the Torre delli Asinelli and the 
Garisenda, which had the honour of furnishing an 
image to Dante. ‘The great poet compares Antzus 
bending towards the earth to the Garisenda, which 
proves that the inclination of the tower of Bologna 
goes back to the thirteenth century. ‘These towers, 
seen by moonlight, had a most fantastic aspect. ‘Their 
strange deviation from the plumb, giving the lie to all 
the laws of statics and perspective, makes you giddy, 


and causes the other buildings in the neighbourhood to 


293 


doch bb bbb bbb bbb bbb bet 
TRA VEGhS TN D0 A ley 


seem themselves out of plumb. The Torre delli Asi- 
nelli is three hundred feet high, and is three and a half 
feet off the perpendicular. Its extreme height makes 
it seem slender, and I can best compare it to one of 
the great factory chimneys of Manchester or Birming- 
ham. It rises from a crenellated base and has two 
stories also crenellated, the second one somewhat nar- 
rower. From the belfry which surmounts it there 
comes down a series of iron rods which reach to the 
foot of the building. ‘The Garisenda, which is only 
about half as high as the Torre delli Asinelli, leans 
over frightfully and causes its neighbour to appear 
almost perpendicular. Although it has been leaning 
over thus for six hundred years, one does not like 
to stand on the side towards which it bends. You 
always fancy that the moment of its fall has arrived, 
and that you will be crushed under its stones. It 
is a childish impulse of terror which it is difficult to 
overcome. 

If the moonlight enabled me to see the towers, it 
was not sufficient to enable me to examine in the 
museum the paintings by Guido, the three Carracci, 
Domenichino, Albani, and the other great masters of 


the school of Bologna. 


294 


Lkbeeteetetetettetetette 
PRR RA KA 


At four o’clock the next morning I dressed very 
sleepily to take the stage-coach for Florence. I ob- 
served a certain movement among the troops. It was 
an execution which was preparing. Some twenty 
people were to be shot that morning for political 
reasons. I left Bologna with the same painful im- 
pression which I had experienced at Verona and Fer- 
rara and which awaited me at Rome;-— but the 
thought of crossing the Apennines on that fine Sep- 


tember day soon cleared away the lugubrious feeling. 


295 


P “HE road from Bologna to Florence crosses 

the Apennines, the backbone of Italy. 

There are certain names which cast a spell, 
even upon travellers most accustomed to disappoint- 
ments. [The name of the Apennines is of them. 
Unquestionably the mania for making comparisons is 
a mistake, and it is unjust to expect one place to be 
other than it is; but I could not help, from the top of 
the stage-coach, thinking of the beautiful Spanish Sier- 
ras of which no one speaks and whose unknown beauty 
is far grander than that of the Italian mountains, which 
are perhaps overpraised. I recalled a trip from Gra- 
nada to Veles-Malaga across the mountains, along a 
lonely track traversed by scarcely more than a couple 
of travellers in the course of the year, and which sur- 
passes all that can be imagined in the way of effects 
of outline, light, and colour. I thought also of my 
excursion into Kabylia, of the mountains gilded by 


the African sun, of the valleys full of rose laurel, 


296 


tttebeettttretettttettetets 
Ba Ore E NICib: 


mimosas, arbutus, and mastic trees, through which 
strayed rivulets inhabited by little tortoises; of the 
Kabyle villages surrounded with fences of cactus, and 
of the broken horizon lines, over which rose always 
the mighty mass of Djourdjoura; and positively the 
Apennines seemed to me mediocre in spite of their 
classical reputation. 

Although the road never climbs such abrupt steeps 
as those of Salinas and Descarga in Spain, the hills are 
sometimes bad enough to make it necessary to employ 
oxen. It was an ever new pleasure to me to see the 
slow animals come along, their heads bowed under the 
yoke, their glistening noses, their great peaceful eyes, 
their strong legs. ‘To begin with, they were always pic- 
turesque in themselves, and then there was always with 
them a rustic, wild oxherd, often of fine mien, with 
tousled hair, steeple hat, and brown jacket, carrying 
his goad like a sceptre. Besides, oxen to me always 
mean a rough tableland, a high plateau whence one 
enjoys unexpectedly a vast prospect, a blue panorama 
of plains, mountains, and valleys, the horizon full of 
towns and villas shimmering in the light and shadow. 

As the slopes of the Apennines begin to sink towards 


Florence, the landscape improves in beauty. Villas 


297 


Seéeeeeteeeteteteteetettt 
TRA V Eels)? NY Agee 


show upon the sides of the road, black cypresses rise 
arrow-like, Italian pines outspread their green tops, 
olive trees open their gray, sad foliage. ‘There is a 
bustle of foot-passengers, horses, and carriages, betok- 
ening the approach to a great, living city, a rare thing 
in Italy, that ossuary of dead cities. 

Night had fallen when we arrived at the San Gallo 
Gate. For a city of pleasure and festivals, whose very 
name is scented like a nosegay, Florence received us in 
so strange a fashion that more superstitious persons 
might have been repelled by the apparent evil omen. 

In the very first street into which the stage-coach 
entered, we met an apparition as dreadful as that of the 
Cortés of Death met by the ingenious knight of La 
Mancha in the neighbourhood of Toboso; only in our 
case it was not the decoration of an auto sacramental, 
but a horrid reality. Two files of black spectres, 
masked, bearing resinous torches which shed a lurid 
light with much thick smoke, walked, or rather ran 
behind and before a catafalque borne on men’s shoul- 
ders, and the outline of which could be vaguely made 
out in the dun-coloured cloud of the funeral lights. 
One of these spectres sounded a bell, and all murmured 


with bocca chiusa under the beard of their masks the 


298 


debe abe ok ch hob hab bch ch check cbecbece ok check 
HLO@O REN CE 


prayers for the dead in broken, stifled rhythm. A 
single black spectre would issue from a house and 
hastily join the sombre flock, which soon disappeared 
at the corner of a street. It was a brotherhood of 
Black Penitents who, according to their custom, were 
following a funeral. 

As soon as it was day, I looked out of the win- 
dow to study the prospect unrolled before my eyes. 
The Arno, muddy and yellow, flowed between two 
stone quays, leaving half of its bed bare and show- 
ing in places the slimy bottom strewn with potsherds, 
rubbish, and detritus of all kinds. ‘The spell of Italian 
names, which we meet with set in the verse of poets, 
is so great that their sonorous syllables always awaken 
in the mind an idea different from their aspect in 
reality. In spite of one’s self, one imagines the Arno as 
a stream with silvery waters, flowery, verdant banks 
reached from terraces by marble staircases, and traversed 
at night by boats bearing lights, their “Turkish carpets 
dipping in the tide, and sheltering under their silken 
awnings pairs of lovers. ‘The truth is that the Arno 
should rather be called a torrent than a stream. It 
flows intermittently according to the caprice of the wet 


or dry weather, sometimes overflowing, sometimes a 


299 


cheb heals ch heck ch be che tecbe tech che bch cabo oh once 
TT RA Vale ieeS) ve Ne Asia 


mere thread, and in Florence it resembles more the 
scene between the Pont de |’Hotel-Dieu and the Pont- 
Neuf than anything else. A few fishermen standing 
in the water nearly up to their knees alone imparted 
any animation to the river, which on account of the 
constant change of height, carries only flat-boats ; 
which is the more regrettable that the sea is very close, 
the Arno flowing into it after having traversed Pisa. 

The houses on the opposite side of the quay were 
tall, of a sober and not very cheerful architecture. A 
few domes and distant church-towers alone broke the 
horizontal line. I caught sight, above the roofs of the 
buildings, of the hill of San Miniato with its church 
and its cypresses, the name of which had remained 
fixed in my mind, although I had never been to Flor- 
ence, after I had read Alfred de Musset’s “ Loren- 
zaccio,” the twenty-fifth scene of which is thus 
designated: “ Before the church of San Miniato at 
Mount Olivet.” 

The handsome Ponte Santa Trinita, designed by 
Ammenato, rebuilt by Bartolommeo Ammanati, spanned 
to the right the river with its three light surbased 
arches. It thus offers less hold to the water in time 


of flood and inundation. It is adorned with statues of 


300 


DALLLLEL EL Eee tht heteeb ese 
PLOREN CE 


the Four Seasons, which from a distance have a fairly 
monumental effect. On the left was the Ponte alla 
Carraja, one of the oldest in Florence, for it goes back 
to the thirteenth century. Destroyed by an inundation, 
it was rebuilt by Ammanati. 

The general aspect of Florence, contrary to the idea 
which one has of it, is sad. ‘he streets are narrow, 
the houses high, the facades sombre and lacking the 
Southern brightness which one expects to meet with. 
The city of pleasure, the summer residence of rich and 
elegant Europe, has a cross and dissatisfied look. Its 
palaces resemble prisons and fortresses. Every house 
seems to intrench itself and to defend itself against the 
street. [he imposing, serious, solid architecture with 
very few openings has preserved the mistrust charac- 
teristic of the Middle Ages and seems to be constantly 
prepared for some sudden attack of the Pazzi or the 
Strozzi. 

The Greeks had a particular way of expressing in a 
single word the central or important place in a city or 
country, — ophthalmos (the eye). Every great capital 
has its eye. In Rome it is the Campo Vaccino, in 
Paris the Boulevard des Italiens, in Venice the Piazza 


San Marco, in Madrid the Prado, in London the 


301 


Strand, in Naples the Via Toledo. Rome is more 
Roman, Paris more Parisian, Venice more Venetian, 
Madrid more Spanish, London more English, Naples 
more Neapolitan in that particular privileged place than 
anywhere else. The eye of Florence is the Piazza 
della Signoria, a fine eye; for indeed, if you suppress 
that square, Florence loses its meaning, it might just as 
well be any other city. 

The first view of the Piazza, with its graceful, pic- 
turesque, complete effect, makes one understand at 
once the mistake made in modern capitals like London 
and Paris and Saint Petersburg, which, under the name 
of squares, open up in their compact masses vast empty 
spaces on which they exhibit all possible and impos- 
sible failures in decoration. It is easy to understand 
why the Carrousel and the Place de la Concorde are 
nothing but great empty fields that absorb fruitlessly 
fountains, statues, triumphal arches, obelisks, candelabra, 
and gardens: all these embellishments, very pretty on 
paper, very good also, no doubt, seen from the car of a 
balloon, are practically lost to the spectator who cannot 
see them all at once. A square, in order to produce a 
fine effect, should not be too large; beyond a certain 


limit, the glance fails to grasp everything. Next it 


302 


che obs fe cbecteclocte leah oe cbr clo oe ob doo 


ere mT 


BO REN CE 


i 
ae 
= 
ie 
a 
i 


must be bordered by different buildings of varied heights. 
Tall buildings are elegant, and suitably circumscribe a 
square. Every detail can then be made out. It is 
just the difference between a painting standing up and 
a painting lying down, upon which you have to walk in 
order to see it. 

The Piazza della Signoria at Florence combines all 
the conditions of architectural picturesqueness, unity, 
and variety. Bordered by buildings which are regular 
in themselves but different one from another, it satisfies 
the eye without wearying it by cold symmetry. The 
Palazzo della Signoria, or Palazzo Vecchio, which at 
once attracts attention through its imposing mass and 
its severe elegance, stands at one of the corners of the 
square instead of being in the centre. ‘This curious 
position, fortunate in my opinion, but regretted by 
those who can see nothing beautiful in architecture 
save geometric regularity, is not due to chance, but to 
a thoroughly Florentine reason. In order to attain 
perfect symmetry, it would have been necessary to 
build upon the detested ground belonging to the Ghi- 
belline rebels, the proscribed house of Uberti. The 
Guelph faction, then all powerful, would not allow the 


architect, Arnolfo di Lapo, to do so. There are 


393 


Sheet etteteteteetttetetest 
AR AVE Oh “NCS Dae 


scholars who have cast doubts upon this tradition; I 
shall not discuss the question here. What is quite 
certain is that the Palazzo Vecchio is much improved 
by the peculiarity of its position and thus leaves space 
for the grand Fountain of Neptune and the equestrian 
statue of Cosimo I. | 

The Palazzo Vecchio ought really to be called a 
fortress. It is a great mass of stone, without pillars, 
without facade, without architectural orders, forming a 
sort of huge square tower somewhat longer than it is 
wide, dentellated with battlements, and topped by a 
look-out which projects fairly well out. The stories 
are marked by ogival windows which cut like loop- 
holes the thick walls of the massive edifice, and in the 
centre, like the donjon in the centre of a fortress, rises 
a high, crenellated belfry with a dial on the face which 
looks upon the square. 

Time has gilded the walls with beautiful golden and 
russet tones, that contrast superbly with the clear blue 
sky, and the whole building has a haughty, romantic, 
fierce aspect that fully comes up to the idea which 
one has formed of the old Palazzo della Signoria, 
that has witnessed, since the thirteenth century, when 


it was built, so many intrigues, riots, violent deaths, 


304 


$ebeeeebeeeeeeetettetetest 
FLORENCE 


and crimes. The battlements of the palace, squarely — 
built, show that it was carried to that height by the 
Guelph faction; the bifurcated battlements of the 
belfry indicate a reaction and the accession to power 
of the Ghibelline faction. Guelphs and Ghibel- 
lines hated each other so intensely that they pro- 
claimed their opinion in the fashion of their clothing, 
in the manner they cut their hair, in the way they 
fortified their homes. They dreaded nothing so much 
as to be mistaken one for the other, and made as 
marked a difference as they could between themselves. 
They had a private greeting, after the manner of the 
Free Masons and the Companions of Duty. By the 
characteristic crenellations, we may recognise in the old 
palaces of Florence the opinions of the former owners. 
The walls of the city are crenellated squarely after the 
Guelph fashion, and the tower of the ramparts opposite 
the Mall has the swallow-tailed Ghibelline crenellations. 

Under the arches which support the upper portion of 
the palace are painted in fresco the arms of the people 
of the Commune and Republic of Florence. After the 
expulsion of the Duke of Athens, whose romantic title 
makes one think of Shakespeare’s ‘¢ Midsummer Night’s 


Dream,” Florence was divided into four quarters and 


20 305 


AELAKAALEALEALAEAAAELLALALELS 
TRA Voneies; i Na ae 


sixteen banners, four standards to a quarter, and each 
had its arms. 

The substructure of the Palazzo Vecchio consists of 
steps which formerly were used as a tribune from 
which the magistrates and demagogues harangued the 
people. 

Two marble colossi, ‘Hercules and Cacus,” by 
Baccio Bandinelli, and Michael Angelo’s ‘ David,” 
stand on guard by the gate like two giant sentries 
whose relief has forgottenthem. Bandinelli’s “ Hercu- 
les”? and Michael Angelo’s “ David,’’ have been sub- 
jected to criticism and admiration which do not appear 
to be entirely just. In my opinion, Bandinelli has 
been too much depreciated and Michael Angelo over- 
praised. ‘Iche “Hercules and Cacus” has a haughty 
pride, a fierce energy, a feeling of grandeur, which 
mark the artist of the first rank. Never did Florentine 
exaggeration carry farther its swelling violence and its 
boastful anatomy. ‘The network of muscles which 
uplift the monstrous shoulders is of amazing force, and 
Michael Angelo himself, when he saw this part moulded 
separately, could not refrain from approving of it. 
The torso of the Hercules has been greatly criticised 


by contemporary artists and sightseers. It is true that 


306 


bebeebeeeeetttttttttttste 
BE OR EN CE 


every detail is wrought out to exaggeration, the deltoid 
and pectoral muscles, the mastoidean ligaments, the 
modelling and the projection of the ribs, are brought 
out in extreme relief. It is an anatomical preparation 
carried to the third power; the artist has forgotten to 
put a skin over the bumps and projections, or rather, 
he would not do it; hence the comparison of the torso 
to a sack full of pine-cones. The reproach, which is 
not undeserved, might be addressed to many another 
Florentine artist, and even to the great Buonarotti. 
Michael Angelo’s “ David,” besides the fact that it 
represents in gigantic form a Biblical hero whose 
stature was notoriously short, seems to me rather heavy 
and commonplace, an infrequent defect in a master 
so rigorously elegant. David is a great, stout, healthy 
fellow, strong-backed, provided with solid pectoral 
muscles and monstrous biceps, a powerful porter 
waiting to load a sack on his back. ‘The way the 
marble is worked is remarkable, and on the whole it is 
a good study which would do honour to any other 
sculptor than Michael Angelo, but it lacks the Olympic 
and formidable maestria which is the characteristic of 
the productions of that superhuman sculptor. [am 


bound to add that the artist was not fully free. He 


aha 


ftbbbbbebbbbtobbtte tees 
RA ViEXES: IN eal Avie 


a 


drew his David from a huge block of Carrara marble 
which had been cut a hundred years before by Simeone 
da Fiesole, who had tried to make of it a colossus, but 
had failed. Michael Angelo, then twenty-nine years 
of age, took up the work, and as he played with it, 
found a giant statue amid the shapeless attempts of 
Simeone da Fiesole. Some defects of proportion in 
the limbs, ——a lack of marble,— and chisel marks 
plainly seen on the shoulders, denote the difficulty 
the great sculptor experienced in carrying out this 
singular tour de force, which consisted in putting one 
statue into the skin of another. Michael Angelo 
alone could indulge so strange a fancy. 

Two other statues ending in Hermes, the one by 
Bandinelli, the other by Rossi, were formerly used as 
chain posts. That by Rossi represents a man ending 
in an oak trunk, as a symbol of Tuscan magnanimity 
and strength; Bandinelli’s, a woman with a crown on 
her head and her feet caught in a laurel, the symbol of 
the supremacy in arts and courtesy of this happy land. 
Above the gate two lions support a cartouche with rays 
bearing this inscription : — 

«< Jesus Christ, Rex Florentini Populi, S. P. decreto electus,’’ 


As a matter of fact, Christ was elected King of Flor- 


308 


RLAELE ALLELES Settee tts 
Pe OREN CE 


ence on the motion of Nicolo Capponi in the Council 
of One Thousand, with the hope of securing popular 
tranquillity, for Christ could not be supplanted or re- 
placed by any one. Nevertheless, this ideal presidency 
did not prevent the overthrowing of the Republic. 

The outer court, into which one enters through this 
gate, was restored by Michelozzo. His Renaissance 
taste blooms out in the architecture. Elegant columns 
supporting arches form a patio such as you find in 
Spanish houses. A fountain by the sculptor Taddi, 
from the designs of Vasari, built by order of Cosimo I, 
is placed in the centre and completes the likeness. “The 
basin is of porphyry ; the water springs from the mouth 
of a fish choked by a beautiful bronze child, the work 
of Andrea Mocchi. Above the arcades are painted in 
fresco trophies, spoils, weapons, and prisoners chained 
to medallions which bear the arms of Florence and of 
the Medici. 

One of the most interesting rooms in the Palazzo 
Vecchio is the great hall, which is of enormous dimen- 
sions and has its legend. When the Medici were 
driven away from Florence in 1494, Fra Girolamo 
Savonarola, who was at the head of the popular upris- 


ing, suggested the building of a vast hall in which the 


599 


beeebdetdbeteetetettetttest 


oe we are 


TRA WErieS? ONS Agioas 


council of one thousand citizens could elect the magis- 
trates and settle the affairs of the Republic. The 
architect: Cronaca was charged with the work and 
carried it out with such marvellous celerity that Fra 
Savonarola caused the report to be spread that angels 
came from heaven to help the masons, and continued 
their work during the night. In this rapidly erected 
building Cronaca displayed, if not all his genius, at least 
all his skill. T"he plans and methods employed to resist 
the strains in the framing of the great ceiling, which is 
of enormous weight, are justly admired and have often 
been studied by architects. 

When the Medici returned and removed their resi- 
dence from the palace which they had occupied on the 
Via Larga to the Palazzo della Signoria, Cosimo desired 
to change the council hall into an audience hall, and 
ordered the presumptuous Baccio Bandinelli, whose 
designs had captivated him, to make certain alterations. 
The sculptor, however, had overestimated his talent as 
an architect, and in spite of the assistance of Giuliano 
Baccio d’Agnolo, whom he called to his help, he 
worked for ten years without managing to get out of 
the difficulties which he had himself created. It was 


Vasari who raised the ceiling several feet, finished the 


310 


Copyright, 1901, by George D, Sproul 


The Loggia dei Lanzi, the gem of the Piazza della Signoria 


bia 


bee. 


at 


work, and adorned the walls with a series of frescoes 
still existing, representing scenes in the history of Flor- 
ence, battles, and stormings of towns, —all travestied 
after the antique manner, and mingled with allegories. 
‘These frescoes, painted with intrepid and skilful medi- 
ocrity are full of the commonplace exaggerated muscles 
and anatomical tricks customary at that time among the 
herd of artists. Although it is the history of Florence 
which is illustrated, it looks as if the people were 
Romans of old laying siege to Veia, or any other 
ancient city of Latium, so that the frescoes look like 
huge illustrations of “ De Viris [lustribus.”’ ‘This bad 
taste is shocking. What have classical helmets, striped 
cuirasses, and naked men to do with the war between 
Florence and Pisa and Sienna? 

I remarked a moment ago that colossal dimensions 
are unnecessary to produce striking effects in architec- 
ture. The Loggia dei Lanzi, the gem of the Piazza 
della Signoria consists of a portico formed of four 
arches, three on the facade and one on the side towards 
the gallery of the Uffizi. It is a miniature monument, 
but the harmony of proportion is so perfect that it gives 
a sensation of comfort. The neighbourhood of the 


Palazzo Vecchio with its great mass and its robust 


311 


bbb bbb bbb bbb bbb bet 
T-R A‘ Veeriss 3. EN Aisa 


squareness brings out wonderfully the elegant lines of 
the arches and the pillars. Its principal charm is that, 
symmetrical in itself, it obeys the law of intersequence, 
which governs the monuments that surround it and 
which it interrupts. ‘T’his diversity gives to the square 
a brightness which would have been quickly replaced 
by monotony, if the arches had been repeated on each 
side. [he capitals of the pillars of the Loggia are in 
a Gothic and fantastic Corinthian style, in which the 
rules of Vitruvius have not been carried out. This 
fact in no wise diminishes their grace and their happy 
proportions. An open-worked balustrade crowns the 
building, which ends in a terrace of delicate and light 
design. Its name, Loggia dei Lanzi, dates from the time 
when the German spearmen or lancers had a barracks 
not far from there. Its purpose was to shelter the 
towns-people from sudden showers, and to enable them 
to converse on their business and that of the city. It 
was under this gallery, raised a few feet above the level 
of the square, that magistrates were invested with their 
functions, knights created, decrees of the government 
published, and the people harangued as from a tribune. 

The Loggia is a sort of open-air museum. The 


“‘ Perseus’ by Benvenuto Cellini, the ‘ Judith” by 


212 


che cte ae oe oh abe ade cle che abe cr cbrcbecbecte cde cheebe ote eres 


ere ove oe CTO CFO OTE OTe WTS “TO 


FLORENCE 
Donatello, “ The Rape of the Sabines” by Giovanni 


da Bologna are framed in within its arches. Six 
antique statues, the cardinal and monkish virtues, by 
Jacopo Pietro, and a Madonna by Orcagna adorn the 
inner wall. “I'wo lions, the one antique, the other by 
Flaminio Vacca, almost as good as the Greek lions in 
the Arsenal at Venice, complete the ornamentation. 
The “ Perseus”? may be considered the masterpiece of 
Benvenuto Cellini, an. artist who is a great deal spoken 
of in France, though really little known. The statue, 
mannered in pose like all the works of the Florentine 
school, which carried very far the affection of contour 
and a desire for nobility in motion, is very seductive in 
its juvenile grace. ‘This made-up pose, inferior no 
doubt to antique simplicity, nevertheless has a great 
charm ; it is elegant and cavalier-like. “The young hero 
has just cut off the head of the unfortunate Medusa, 
whose body, twisted with skilful boldness, forms, with 
its mass of limbs writhing in agony, a footstool for the 
conqueror’s foot. Perseus, turning away his face full 
of compassion mingled with horror, holds in one hand 
his curved sword and with the other raises on high 
the petrifying, motionless, dead face with its hair of 


writhing serpents. The pedestal, which is another 


BN: 


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TR AWRE-S SION DTT Aste 


masterpiece, is adorned with dassi-relevi containing 
the story of Andromeda, small figures and foliage 
which exhibit the talent of Benvenuto the goldsmith. 
Below these small figures, which represent Jupiter 
standing and brandishing a thunderbolt, runs the 
threatening inscription : 
<<'Te, fili, si quis leserit, ultor ero, —’”’ 

which applies as much to Perseus as to the artist. 
This inscription with its double meaning, appears to be 
a warning from the swordsman sculptor to critics, who 
had better profit by it. Without being influenced by 
this rodomontade, I frankly admire the Perseus for its 
heroic grace and the beauty of its delicate form; it is a 
charming statue, an exquisite gem; it is worth all the 
trouble it has cost its author. 

Donatello’s “ Judith” exhibits with rather alarming 
and repulsive pride, the head of Holofernes cut off. It 
fulfils under the arch of the Loggia the same function as 
Foyatier’s “Spartacus”? opposite the Palace of the 
Tuileries; only the warning of Spartacus is dumb, 
while in order that Judith’s warning should be in no 
wise ‘ambiguous, there is engraved on the plinth this 
terrible inscription: ‘ Exemplum salut publ. cives pos- 


~ uere MCCCXV.” Both the statues are in bronze. 


314 


Lhbbbeeeebetetbetteteetes 
FLORENCE 


The “Rape of the Sabines”’ offered Giovanni da 
Bologna an admirable pretext for the exhibition of his 
knowledge of anatomy, and enabled him to show human 
beauty under three expressions; a beautiful young 
woman, a vigorous man, and an old man still splendid. 

The Fountain of Neptune by Ammanati, which 
rises in monumental fashion at the corner of the 
Palazzo Vecchio in the empty space left by the razing 
of the home of the Uberti, is rich and grandiose in 
aspect, although it is inferior to the designs of the other 
artists which were rejected in favour of the favourite 
architect of the Grand Duke Cosimo I. The god, of 
colossal size, stands upon a shell drawn by four horses, 
two of white marble and two of veined marble. “Three 
Tritons play at his feet, and the water falls in numer- 
ous jets into an octagonal basin, the four corners of 
which are adorned with bronze statues representing 
Thetis and Doris, marine deities, and children playing 
with shells, corals, and madrepores. Eight satyrs, also 
in bronze, masks and cornucopiz complete this rich 
decoration, which exhibits already the pompous and 
mythological taste of the fountains in the gardens 
of Versailles, a taste which is believed to be French, 


but which is really decadent Italian. 


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wwe ore we ete we 


TRA Vebalis) DNy oT Aug a 


The equestrian statue of Cosimo de’ Medici, the best 
of the four which Giovanni da Bologna was lucky 
enough to make during his artist’s life, is marked by 
great ease and nobility. “The horse has a distinct mo- 
tion in his short trot, the man sits well on the saddle 
and is not ridiculously historical. The half real, half 
historical costume of the Grand Duke has a fine monu- 
mental effect. The statue is in bronze, and proved 
very difficult to cast. Bassi-relievi representing scenes 
in the history of Cosimo are placed on the four faces 
of the pedestal. On one of them is seen the portrait 
of a dwarf jester whom the Duke was very fond of. 

I must also mention, as being on this splendid 
square, the palace of the Ugoccini, said to have been 
designed by Raphael ; its suave, pure style is indeed that 
of the master. Also the Pisani Roof, a historical roof 
which the Florentines caused the Pisan prisoners to erect 
as a mark of contempt, which covers the Post-Office. 
But I have described enough statues and palaces. Let us 
take a carriage and go to the Cascine, the Champs- 
Elysées of Florence, to see human faces and rest our 
eyes after all this marble, stone, and bronze. 

The Florentine type differs essentially from the 
Lombard and Venetian types. We have no longer 


316 


FLORENCE 


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the regular, pure outlines, the somewhat full oval, the 
rich neck, and the happy serenity of form, the perfect 
healthfulness of beauty which strike one on the streets 
of Milan, where, as Balzac so truly says, ‘ Jani- 
tors’ daughters look like queens’ daughters.” One 
cannot understand in Florence the proud, pagan 
epitaph of some count or another whose tomb 
bore for sole inscription, “Fu bello e Milanese; ” 
the grace and the bright gaiety of Venice are lacking 
here. 

Faces in Florence do not possess that antique cast 
which yet exists in the rest of Italy after so many cen- 
turies, so many successive invasions and so radical a 
change in manners and religion. ‘They are plainly 
more modern. If it is impossible to mistake on a 
Paris boulevard a thoroughbred Neapolitan or Roman, a 
Florentine might easily pass unnoticed among Parisians, 
The strong Southern character which marks other Ital- 
ians will not betray him. There is more caprice, 
more unexpectedness in the features of the Floren- 
tine men and women; thought and moral preoccupa- 
tions leave visible marks on their faces and alter the 
modelling in an irregular fashion which improves the 


expression. The Florentine women, less beautiful! 


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TRAVERS DN AT ae 


than those of Milan, Venice, or Rome, are more inter- 
esting and appeal more to the mind. ‘Their eyes are 
melancholy, their brow is at times dreamy, and some 
of them have a look of vague suffering, a wholly 
recent, Christian feeling which would be sought for in 
vain on Greek and Roman statues. Amid the classical 
Italian heads, the Florentine heads are bourgeois in the 
deepest and best sense of the word; they express not 
only the race, but the individual; they are not exactly 
human, they are also social. 

The Florentine artists, Andrea del Sarto, for in- 
stance, lack the serene beauty of ‘Titian, the angelic 
placidity of Raphael. They reproduce a type which is 
at once humbler and more refined. One feels the 
reality through their ideal; they do not put upon their 
faces the mask of general regularity which the other 
great Italian masters have perhaps used too often. 
They venture oftener upon portraiture, and are not 
afraid to make use of a certain ugliness in order to 
reproduce character. On looking at their works one 
understands how some of their heads, unquestionably 
less beautiful than the types employed by the painters 
of the Venetian or Roman school, produce a deeper 


and more lasting impression. 


318 


de obese oe oe de oe oe ob de tecde sch oe choco cbe cto cke oh chook 
FLORENCE 


These generalisations, — which, of course, are sub- 
ject to numerous exceptions, for there are regular 
Florentine heads, —are the result of observations I 
have made in the streets, at the theatres, at church, and 
on my walks; for is not the human face as worthy of 
attention as architecture? Is not the model as good as 
the picture, and the work of God as the work of art? 
And if I have looked too attentively at some fair 
passer-by, surely she was not more disturbed by it 
than would be a column or a statue. 

The place in Florence which is most favourable to 
this kind of study, too frequently forgotten by artists in 
love with antiquity or art, is undoubtedly the Cascine, 
a sort of ‘Tuscan Champs-Elysées or Hyde Park where, 
from three to five, crowd in buggies, tilburies, phaetons, 
coupés, landaus, and victorias all the rich, noble, 
elegant, and even pretentious people of the city. The 
Cascine (which means “dairy ’’) is situated outside the 
walls beyond the Frato Gate and extends along 
the right bank of the Arno for about two miles to 
the point where the Terzolli flows into the river. 
Through great clumps of tall old trees, pines, green 
oaks, cork trees, and other southern varieties, with 


resinous trees of the North, run sandy roads which end 


319 


LELLEAEELELELELELLELELES 


oe wie die vie 


TRAVABAINS TINS US AS 


in a large open space equivalent to what the Spaniards 
would call the Salon of this fashionable drive. The 
great masses of verdure, bordered on the one hand by 
the gently flowing stream of the Arno, on the other 
framed in by the blue Apennines, the distant masses 
of which are seen dotted with villas and hamlets, com- 
pose in the splendid Southern light an admirable ensem- 
ble which it is difficult to forget. “The Cascine has 
something more artlessly rural than its companion 
drives in Paris and London, and the influx of foreign 
elegance does not deprive it of an Italian simplicity 
graceful in its nonchalance. A very simple and quiet 
country house belonging to the Grand Duke is buried 
within this cool verdure, which Southern people appre- 
ciate more than we do, no doubt, on account of its 
rarity. In Spain I met with similar admiration for the 
shades of the Park at Aranjuez watered by the Tagus 
and filled with Northern trees. 

Some years ago, Florence, especially before political 
events had driven away rich tourists, was the drawing- 
room of Europe. Thither, from all points of the hori- 
zon, came the Englishman flying from his native fogs, 
the Russian throwing off the snows of a six-months 


winter, the Frenchman bound on the fashionable tour, 


320 


HEPA E ALE PLEA AAAALAALAALAA LLY 
BUG RIAN CE 


the German seeking simplicity in art, the singers, the 
dancers who had retired from the stage, the doubtful 
lives and fortunes, the fallen queens, the sweet couples 
united at Gretna Green or simply before the altar of 
nature, the women separated from their husbands for 
some reason or another, the great ladies who had made 
a mistake, the princesses having in their train tenors or 
black-bearded youths, the dandies half-ruined at Baden 
or Spa, the victims of cards or of Parisian credit, the 
old maids dreaming of lively adventures; a whole 
curious society mingled with much alloy, but bright, 
witty, gay, looking for pleasure only, and spending 
money with the greater carelessness that Italian luxury 
is relatively economical. This influx of strangers 
has somewhat diminished, yet the Cascine still offers, 
from three to seven, according to the season, a very 
brilliant spectacle. 

When I reached it in my carriage, — for it would be 
bad form to go on foot, although the distance from the 
city is very small,—there was a very full reunion. 
The day was fine, the air soft, and the sun sent bril- 
liant beams from between the dappled clouds. The 
open space of the Cascine was like a vast drawing- 


room. The carriages, drawn up in line, represented 


21 321 


LLEAA ELS SSAA ttt tttette 
T RAVAERAES © Tt NOTET Alene 


the arm-chairs and sofas. Ladies in full dress reclined 
in these carriages, the back seats of which were filled 
with flowers. Their lovers and friends visited them, 
just as one goes to call on a lady in her box at the 
opera, and chatted standing on the steps. The riders 
also took part in the conversation, seated upon spirited 
animals which they held in, exciting them to make 
them show off, bravely safe performances which always 
make a man appear somewhat of a hero in the eyes of 
the beloved. Meanwhile the flower girls with their 
baskets, which are no sooner emptied than they are 
filled again, pass from one carriage to another or stop 
_ horsemen and foot-passengers. ‘They literally carry 
out Virgil’s advice, — 
<«¢ Manibus date lilia plenis.” 

They even seem to give them, although in reality they 
sell them. ‘They are not paid at once, but from time 
to time you give them a small amount of silver or 
something else, which is more gracious, for these ower 
girls are usually young and pretty, there being a natural 


attraction between young and pretty girls and flowers. 


322 


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Introduction 


ERE is a characteristically Romanticist 
work, or rather three works, the first of 
which is boldly, almost offensively in- 
tended as a demonstration of the Ro- 

manticist theories of art and manners. Fortunio was 
advertised, on its first appearance, as an “ Incredible 
Tale.’ Was this meant as a concession to the com- 
mon-sense and the artistic feeling of the readers of the 
book? By no means. The accurate epithet was in- 
tended rather to pique public curiosity, then whetted to 
the utmost by the extravagances of the Romanticist 
writers. The motive which inspired Gautier in the com- 
position of this work, which even now enjoys considera- 
ble popularity in France, was the desire to indulge to the 
full his fervid imagination, and at the same time to make 
another pronouncement in favour of his peculiar views 
on art, peculiar in this that they ran counter to the 


sober understanding of many able minds of the day and 


3 


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especially to the notions, imperfect and commonplace, 
no doubt, of the mass of the readers of newspapers and 
light literature. These views, however, were not pecu- 
liar to Gautier in so far as he was a member of the 
Romanticist school, and an important one at that. 
All the young authors who had rallied round Victor 
Hugo, recognised for some years past as the standard- 
bearer of Romanticism, shared the opinions of Gautier 
on the question of ‘Art for art’s sake,” and the conse- 
quent necessity for shocking, as frequently and as 
violently as possible, the sense of decency that in spite 
of repeated attacks, still survived among the general 
public. 

The greatest and most celebrated authors of the 
school, save Lamartine and Alfred de Vigny, had 
adopted the courtesan, of the worst and most con- 
temptible type, as the natural heroine of their lucu- 
brations. The chief in person, the monumental, 
cathedral, pyramidal Hugo, had devoted infinite pains 
to the rehabilitation of the abandoned female. His 
Marion de Lorme is too well known in this respect 
to render more than a passing allusion to it necessary. 
Alexandre Dumas had taken the woman in society and 


adorned her adultery with all the flashy colours and fine 


4 


oh robe ob os abe abe abe he che ober aoe a oe abe eo cae 


ere awe oe are wre OTe ore ore Ure 


INTRODUCTION 


writing at his disposal. Petrus Borel, the lycanthrope, 
wrote novels at once unintelligible and vile; the whole 
band of hangers-on to the chief imitated the example set 
by him, and sang the praises of the fallen woman in the 
finest language they could command. It seemed as if 
French society were composed exclusively of young 
debauchees, old voluptuaries, and women, young and 
old, rotten to the marrow. ‘The protests of the more 
respectable readers and artists were treated with con- 
tumely, hooted down, characterised as British cant and 
puritanical hypocrisy, and declared to spring from an 
impossibility on the part of the protestants to under- 
stand art or anything connected with it. 

Gautier, who never swerved from the application of 
the doctrine, could not possibly remain behind in the 
race, so his Fortunio, and, in a less degree, his Cleopatra 
and Candaules, were intended as a declaration of princi- 
ples, though he had already stated these principles with 
sufficient clearness and vigour in his AZademaoiselle de 
Maupin and its startling “ Preface.”  Fortunio is in 
every respect inferior to that celebrated novel, and 
although Gautier declared that the ‘‘ Incredible Tale,” 
like the novel, was intended to be and actually was an 


exposition of Beauty in the highest and purest form, no 


5 


ALELAEALELAALALLALALL ELA ELA 
FORTUNIO 


comparison is possible between the genuine feeling for 
beauty, albeit too often enveloped in sensuality, which 
is the characteristic trait of MJademoiselle de Maupin, 
and the merely sensual and gross, nay, usually coarse 
and repellent Fortunio. The absurdities and extrava- 
gances which abound in this tale, and which recall the 
similar but more talented performances of the senior 
Dumas in the same line, lack everything that in the 
works of the latter attracts and retains the reader. 
The adventures of the hero in Gautier’s absurdity 
are merely idiotically impossible. The adventures of 
Monte-Christo are improbable, assuredly, but not wholly 
wild and devoid of a shade of possibility. Besides, 
there is dramatic force and effect in all of Dumas’ 
work, and there is absolutely none in Fortunio. It is 
so painfully plain that the author desires to startle, 
shock, and irritate decency and common-sense, that he 
ends by failing in his purpose. He actually wearies 
one, though it must be owned that this is truer of the 
foreign reader and of the more refined French public 
than of the mass of devourers of light literature, For- 
tunio, as has been stated, being still one of the most 
popular of Gautier’s books, and even very modern 


critics still expressing admiration for it. 


6 


BLELALALLALLALALALLALALELS 
INTRODUCTION 


Most of the performances of Fortunio are childishly 
ridiculous, where they are not low and disgusting. 
The description of the orgy with which the book 
begins, and in which Gautier evidently revels, may 
have pleased the Romanticists of his day, but it is 
merely sickening now. Neither art nor beauty in any 
form redeems this passage from wearisomeness. Nay, 
more: it is Gautier’s evident intention to amaze his 
reader by a description of the most splendid luxury and 
to impress on the contemned Jdourgeois the fact that a 
Romanticist is intimately acquainted with all the details 
of the most refined wealth and taste. He simply suc- 
ceeds in proving that he, like Hugo, his master and 
exemplar, is one of the most thorough-paced bourgeois 
that ever gaped in amazement and surprise at scenes 
that offer, in reality, neither real splendour nor real 
artistic interest. 

Next to this motive — the stupefying of the average 
reader and the insistent proclamation of the doctrine 
of “Art for art’s sake,””—the most striking feature 
of the work is the additional proof it affords of the 
contempt of the Romanticists for woman. ‘They 
looked upon her as merely a plaything destined to 


satisfy the carnal lusts of their heroes —and possibly 


ENS EES aE NESE ESET EE ee 


Lheebdeteetetteebebtt teeters 
FORTUNIO 


themselves — or to play the part of an ornament in a 
room or at a feast, exactly like the vases and golden 
cups they are so fond of piling on tables and side-boards. 
In most of the Romanticist dramas and novels — with 
the exception, already noted, of Lamartine and Vigny — 
the part played by woman is that assigned to her in the 
East: that of ministering to the sensual satisfaction of 
man. In the whole range of that form of the litera- 
ture of France, there are but few examples of female 
characters treated sympathetically and reverently. The 
wretched beings upon whom Gautier lavishes all the 
skill of an artist, are wholly contemptible, and not even 
his assertion, borrowed from Hugo, that the love Musi- 
dora feels for Fortunio suffices to wash away all her 
sins and to transform her into a pure and honourable 
woman, not all his casuistry can reconcile the reader to 
the acceptance of that character as that of a woman, 
any more than Hugo’s magic verse accomplishes the 
same purpose in his Marion de Lorme. ‘The tale is 
deliberately meant to be astonishingly immoral and im- 
proper, and yet it utterly fails of its purpose. It is 
simply absurd. The reader feels that there is beauty 
in the words, in occasional suggestions, but as for 


admiring the characters or being in the slightest degree 


8 


tt¢¢eteettbtttettttete ttt 
IN VRGOD WU CT ION 


influenced to evil by the pranks of the extremely inane. 
Fortunio, he knows himself entirely safe from any such 
temptation. 

The other two tales, One of Cleopatra’s Nights and 
King Candaules, are both infinitely superior to For- 
tunio. In both, Gautier has sought a sensual subject 
in order to apply once more his doctrine of Art, 
but in these two cases, and especially in the latter, 
genuine feeling for beauty and for the dramatic have 
swamped the merely gross side of the subject. The 
exotic has helped Gautier; an archeologist might find 
reason to differ with him and to criticise some of the 
details, but the general effect of the two tales is dis- 
tinctly strong and interesting. ‘There is a story — 
there is practically none in Fortunio; there is a drama, 
and a bloody one, quite in keeping with the manners 
of the times described; there are force and power, both 
of which are lacking in the other work; there is con- 
sistency in the characters of Cleopatra and of Nyssia. 
Indeed, in the latter there is a glimpse of a higher ideal 
of woman; of a woman to whom chastity and self- 
respect mean something, and who is the more attrac- 
tive on that account. ‘There is some analysis of senti- 


ments and motives; not very deep, no doubt, but more 


7 


LEEAKALEAEALLALLALAAALA LLL ELLE 
FORTUNIO 


than one meets with usually in the works of Romanti- 
cist writers. 

Gautier’s love of plastic beauty, his fondness for 
spectacular pomp, his enjoyment of the vast, the 
mighty, the huge, the colossal, his passionate love 
of colour in its most dazzling as well as in its most 
delicate manifestations, combine in these two tales to 
enchant and delight the reader. Here is no mere bal- 
derdash, no absurd attempt to amaze the profanum vul- 
gus, whom he hates so cordially, but an artistic and 
dramatic representation of scenes from long vanished 
civilisations, from realms of tradition and legend, in 
which the imagination may freely indulge in its wildest 
flights, and yet is more under control because the desire 
to be archeologically accurate and to prove that a 
Romanticist can be reliably erudite checks the excesses 
in which Gautier has previously revelled. 

Fortunio was published serially in /e Figaro, from 
May 23 to July 24, 1837. It then bore the title 
! Eldorado, and the name was changed only on the 
publication in book form in 1838. Another edition 
appeared in 1840, and in 1845 it was included in the 
Nouvelles, of which it has ever since formed part. 


One of Cleopatra’s Nights was written for la Presse, 


1 fe) 


LLALEALALALASASS LALA ALS 
LNT N@sD UC T LON 


in which it was published in instalments from Nov- 
ember 29 to December 6, 1838. It is not prob- 
able that the subject was suggested to Gautier by the 
Ruy Blas of Victor Hugo, though the general drift 
is similar, and Gautier no doubt had talked Ruy 
Blas over with his great chief. In the original draft 
of the tale, Gautier introduced a verse from Hugo’s 
drama, which he excised later when the story was 
included in the Nouvelles. As for King Candaules, 
it is later in date, appearing in /a Presse from Octo- 
ber 1 to 5 in the year 1844, and being subsequently 
included in the same volume as the other two tales 
here given. It is enthusiastically lauded by Victor 
Hugo in a letter to the author, dated October 4, 
1844, and reproduced by the Vicomte de Spoelberch 
de Lovenjoul in his admirable Histoire des ceuvres 
de Théophile Gautier, to which the editor is indebted 
for the bibliographical details of Gautier’s works. 


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I 


EORGE was entertaining his friends at 
supper. Not all of them, for they num- 
bered two or three thousand, but a few 
of the lions and tigers of his private 

menagerie. 

His suppers were so famous for their brilliancy, 
elegance, and delicate sensuality, that it was considered 
a piece of luck to be invited to them; but it was 
difficult to obtain the favour, and few could boast of 
having their names habitually inscribed on the list of 
fortunate ones. A man had to be a very high liver 
indeed, tried by fire and water, before he could be 
admitted into the sanctuary. 

As for the women, the conditions were still harder, 
—the most perfect beauty, the most refined corruption, 
and not more than twenty years of age. Hence it will 
be readily supposed that there were not many women 
at George’s supper, although the second condition is 


apparently easy enough to fulfil. There were four 


I5 


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che che oe ob obs che abe che be che he che afe he che che che che che abe abe he abe abe 
FORTUNIO 


that evening, four superb, thorough-bred creatures, half 
angels, half devils, with hearts of steel in breasts of 
marble, miniature Cleopatras and Imperias, the most 
delightful monsters imaginable. 

Although there was every possible reason why the 
supper should be exceedingly gay, it was, on the con- 
trary, rather dull. Pleasant fellows, excellent cookery, 
very old wines, very young women, candles enough to 
deaden the noonday light,—all the elements which 
usually go to make up human enjoyment were com- 
bined in proportions rarely met with, yet a shadow of 
dulness had fallen upon every brow; George himself 
found it difficult to conceal a feeling of disappointment 
and annoyance which his guests seemed to share. 

The party had sat down to table on leaving the 
Bouffes, that is, at about midnight. A magnificent 
clock by Boulle, placed upon a pedestal inlaid with 
tortoise-shell, was about to strike one o’clock, and 
vet the guests had only just taken their seats. An 
empty chair denoted that some one had failed to come, 
and so the supper had begun with the unpleasant sen- 
sation of disappointed expectation, and dishes which 
were no longer at their best; for it is with cookery as 


with love, there is a moment that never recurs, and 


16 


kebeeketereebetedttttttttst 
FORT UNIO 


which it is extremely difficult to seize upon. The 
absentee must unquestionably have been very highly 
thought of by the company, for George, who was a 
gourmand after the manner of Apicius, would not have 
waited fifteen minutes for a couple of princes. 

Musidora, the most piquant of the four deities, 
uttered a soft sigh like the cooing of a sick dove, 
which meant, “I am going to spend a gloomy evening 
and to be horribly bored. ‘The party has started 
wrong, and these young fellows look like undertakers.” 

“¢ Heaven blast me!” said George, breaking between 
his fingers a very costly Venetian glass, bell-shaped on 
a spiral stem rayed with milky lines. ‘The broken 
glass scattered over the cloth, in lieu of dew, a few 
drops of old Rhine wine more precious than Orient 
pearls ; “it is one o’clock and that confounded Fortunio 
is not here! ” 

The handsome girl was seated by the empty place 
intended for Fortunio, so was completely alone on that 
side. [he seat had been reserved for Fortunio as a 
place of honour, for Musidora belonged to the highest 
ranks of the aristocracy of beauty, and she certainly 
lacked only a sceptre to be a queen. Possibly she might 


have obtained it in a poetic age, or in those fabulous 


2 17 


tetebebedcetettttttttttes 
FORTUNIO 


days when kings married shepherdesses. It is not quite 
certain, either, that Musidora would have accepted a 
constitutional monarch. She appeared not to be en- 
joying herself; she had even yawned once or twice 
quite openly. She cared for no one among the guests, 
and her self-love not being interested, she remained 
cold and gloomy as if she had been alone. 

Until Fortunio turns up, let us cast a glance over 
the room and the guests. ‘The room itself has a rich 
and splendid air. ‘The walls are wainscotted in oak set 
off by dull gold arabesques. A richly carved cornice, 
supported by children and monsters, runs around the 
room. ‘The ceiling is formed of cross beams covered 
with ornaments and carvings, and upon the golden 
background of the compartments have been painted 
female faces in the Gothic taste, but with more free- 
dom and grace of manner. Between the windows are 
placed sideboards and tables in antique breccia sup- 
ported by silver dolphins with gilded eyes and fins, 
whose twisted tails form capricious volutes. The side- 
boards are laden with silver plate engraved with coats 
of arms, and flagons of strange shapes holding curious 
liqueurs. Full, thick curtains of orange-red velvet 


hang before the stained-glass windows, which are pro- 


18 


kkbeetetetcettetettttettttes 
FORTUNIO 


vided with triple shutters to prevent any noise from 
outside being heard within, or from within being heard 
outside. A great mantelpiece of carved wood fills 
up the end of the room. ‘Two caryatids with jut- 
ting breasts and swelling hips, their long hair falling 
in waves, two living figures worthy of Jean Goujon 
or Germain Pilon, support on their shoulders a trans- 
verse shelf delicately carved and covered with foliage, 
the finish of which is admirable. * Above, a bevelled 
Venetian mirror, very narrow and placed horizontally, 
sparkles within a magnificent frame. A perfect forest 
is flaming within the vast chimney, lined with white 
marble, with two great bronze dragons, their wings 
provided with claws, for andirons. “Three chandeliers 
of rock crystal covered with wax tapers hang from the 
ceiling like bunches of a miraculous vine. “Twelve 
candelabra in gilt bronze, in the form of slaves’ arms, 
spring from the wainscotting, each holding in its fist 
a bouquet of strange flowers whence white tapers 
issue like lighted pistils; to cap this splendour, and 
by way of ornaments above the doors, four fabulously 
beautiful Titians with all their glow of passion, all 
their wealth of warm golden colour, Venuses and mis- 


tresses of princes, proudly enthroned in their divine 


rg 


LLELEALLAALALLALLLLLL ALS 


we of one ots awe wre oy 


FORTUNIO 


nudity in the red shadow of curtains, smiling with 
the self-satisfaction of women who are sure of being 
eternally beautiful. 

Count George prized these paintings highly, and he 
would have given away twenty-five dining-rooms such 
as the one I have just described rather than one of his 
pictures. In poverty, if poverty could have come to 
him, he would have pawned his father’s portrait and 
his mother’s ring, before consenting to sell his beloved 
Titians. It was the one thing which he possessed of 
which he was proud. 

In the centre of this great room, imagine a large 
table covered with a damask tablecloth with Count 
George’s coat of arms woven in, with the coronet and 
motto of his house. A chased centre-piece, represent- 
ing tiger and crocodile hunts with Indians riding on 
elephants, plates of Japan or old Sévres china, glasses 
of all shapes, silver-gilt knives, and all that is nec- 
essary for drinking and eating delicately and long. 
Around the table four lost angels, Musidora, Arabella, 
Phcebe, and Cynthia, charming girls, trained in fatherly 
fashion by the great George himself and surnamed zn- 
comparable. Between them six young men, not one of 


whom was old, contrary to custom, and whose smooth 


ZO 


t$ettttitte¢t¢eteteteetetede 
FORTUNIO 


and restful faces expressed the indolent security and the 
patrician self-possession of people who are the happy 
possessors of two or three hundred thousand a year and 
the greatest names in France. 

George, as master of the house, is lying back in a 
great arm-chair of Cordova leather, the others are on 
smaller chairs of the shape now called Mazarin, made 
of ebony and upholstered with cherry and white silk 
damask of exquisite rarity. 

The company is served by little naked negroes with 
plum-coloured trunk hose, necklaces of glass beads 
and golden armlets and anklets such as are seen in 
the paintings of Paolo Veronese. ‘These little negroes 
move around the table with monkey-like agility and 
help the guests to the costliest wines of France, Hun- 
gary, Spain, and Italy, contained, not in ignoble bottles, 
but in beautiful Florentine vases of silver-gilt admirably 
chased ; yet, in spite of their quickness, they scarcely 
manage to serve every one rapidly enough. 

Over all this regal elegance and luxury, over the 
crystals, bronzes, gilding, a flood of light so brilliant 
that the least detail is illumined and flames strangely ; 
a torrent of silver light which leaves no place in shadow 


save underneath the table, a dazzling atmosphere rayed 


21 


ALALALAALEALLLALLLALL LAL LAL ALLS 
FORTUNIO 


by iris and prismatic beams which might dull less glori- 
ous eyes and diamonds than those of the incomparable 
Musidora, Arabella, Phoebe, and Cynthia. 

On George’s right, next to Fortunio’s empty chair, 
is seated Musidora, the beauty with the sea-green eyes. 
She is at most eighteen years of age. Never has im- 
agination dreamed of a more suave and chaste ideal. 
She might be mistaken for a living vignette from 
Thomas Moore’s “ Loves of the Angels,”’ so limpid 
and diaphanous is she, and she appears rather to illu- 
mine than to be illumined herself. Her hair, so fair 
that it melts into the transparent tones of her skin, 
falls upon her shoulders in lustrous curls. A simple 
band of pearls, something between a frontlet and a 
tiara, keeps the two golden waves which fall on either 
side of her brow from scattering and meeting. Her 
hair is so fine and silky that the least breath lifts it and 
makes it wave. A dress of a very pale green colour 
figured with silver sets off the ideal whiteness of her 
bosom and her bare arms, round which twist two 
bracelets in the form of emerald serpents with diamond 
eyes, painfully realistic. These form her sole orna- 
ments. Her pale face, which exhibits inexpressible 


youth in its heyday, is of the highest type of English 


22 


btbeebettbetetttttttetetes 
FORTUNIO 


beauty. A light down, like the bloom of a fruit, softens 
its delicate contours, and the flesh is so delicate that the 
light penetrates and illumines it within. ‘That divinely 
pale oval face, with the two masses of fair hair, the 
eyes moist with vaporous languor, and the child-like 
mouth with its moist lustre, has an air of modest mel- 
ancholy and plaintive resignation very remarkable on 
such an occasion. To look at Musidora, one would 
think she was a statue of Modesty placed by chance in 
a house of ill-fame. 

But with a little care one notes certain less angelic 
glances, and at the corner of the tender rosy mouth 
shows now and then the tip of the serpent’s tongue ; 
yellow gleams irradiate the limpid eyes like golden 
veins in antique marble, and impart to the glance a 
soft cruelty characteristic of the courtesan and the 
kitten. At times the brows are feverishly agitated by 
deep, repressed ardour, and the eyes are filled with moist 
light as if a tear spread without overflowing. 

The lovely girl sits with one arm hanging down, the 
other outstretched on the table, her lips half-parted, 
her full glass before her, her glance wandering around. 
She is borne down by that immeasurable weariness 


known to those only who have very early gone to 


=a) 


FORTUNTO 


excess in everything, and as far as Musidora is con- 
cerned, there is no novelty left save in virtue. 

“Come, Musidora,” said George, “you are not 
drinking.’”’ And taking the glass which she had not 
yet touched, he put it to her lips, and pressing it 
against her teeth, he poured the liquor drop by drop 
into her mouth. Musidora allowed him to do so with 
the utmost indifference. 

“Do not torment her, George,” said Phoebe, half 
rising ; “¢ when she is in one of her sad fits you cannot 
get a word out of her.”’ 

““ By Jove!” replied George, putting down the glass ; 
“Tf she will neither drink nor speak, I shall kiss her, 
so that she shall not be wholly unsociable.” 

Musidora turned her head away so quickly that 
George’s lips merely touched her earring. 

“Oh,” said George, “‘ Musidora is becoming mon- 
strously virtuous. Soon she will allow no one to kiss 
her but her lover, — and yet I had taught her the very 
best of principles. Musidora virtuous and Fortunio 
absent! that makes a pretty poor supper.” 

Since the much wished-for Fortunio has not yet 
arrived, and I cannot begin my story without him, I 


shall ask the reader’s permission to sketch the portraits 


24 


tteteetbreeeetcetetettteretee 


of Musidora’s companions, much in the way in which 
one hands a book of engravings or of sketches to a 
person who has to wait. Fortunio, who shall, if you 
please, be the hero of this tale, is a young man usually 
very punctual, and some important reason must have 
delayed him and kept him at home. 

Phoebe resembles Apollo’s sister, save as regards 
chastity, and that is why she has assumed the name, 
which strikes her as both a madrigal and a piece of 
irony. She is of tall, willowy stature, and in her port 
has something of the warlike pride of the huntress of 
antiquity. Her delicate nose, with its rosy, sensual 
nostrils runs into her brow almost without a change. 
Her long, slender eyebrows, her narrow eyelids, her 
round, well-shaped mouth, her slightly curved chin 
make her closely resemble a Greek medal. She wears 
a costume piquant in its originality: a dress of silver 
brocade cut in the shape of a tunic and held on the 
shoulders by large cameos, silk stockings of the utmost 
fineness flushed with the rosiness of the flesh, and 
shoes of white satin, which with their crossed ties 
closely imitate cothurns. A crescent of diamonds 
fixed in her hair as black as night and a necklace of 


stars complete her costume. 


25 


LLAELEALLALLLLALALALAL ALLS 
FORTUNIO 


Phoebe is Musidora’s dearest friend, or rather her 
dearest foe. 

Cynthia, enthroned at one end of the table between 
two handsome young fellows, one of whom is her ex- 
lover and the other her coming lover, is a regular, 
serious Roman beauty. She has nothing of the sprightly 
grace and the ever evident coquetry of Parisian women. 
She is beautiful, she knows it, and rests tranquil in the 
consciousness of her all-powerful charms, like a warrior 
who has never been defeated. She breathes slowly and 
regularly, much like a sleeping child; her gestures are 
simple and quiet, her movements few and rhythmical. 
At this moment she is leaning her chin upon the 
back of her wondrously shapely white hand, her little 
finger capriciously turned up, and the turn of her wrist 
and the pose of her arm recalling the fine, mannered 
poses admired in the paintings of the old masters. 
The black hair with blue reflections, separated in 
simple bandeaux, shows the little white ears which 
have never been pierced and stand out a little from 
the head like those of Greek statues. Warm brown 
tones soften the transition between the deep black of 
her hair and the rich pallor of her brow. Some light 


hairs on the temples diminish the stiffness of her clearly 


26 


HLEEAL ALE LHASA AALS Lest 
FORTUNIO 


arched brows, and golden tones which increase in 
intensity as they ascend towards the back of the neck, 
gild it harmoniously and show off richly in the supple, 
firm flesh the three lovely folds of Venus’ necklace. 
Her firm, mat shoulders look like the marble which 
Canova washed with water saturated with oxide of iron 
to soften its dazzling crudity and to remove the shine 
of the polish. Cleomenes’ chisel never produced any- 
thing more perfect, and the most exquisite contours 
caressed by art are as nothing by the side of this 
magnificent reality. 

When she wants to look to one side, she does so 
without turning her head, by turning her eyes alone, 
so that the blue crystal, brightened by a broader glance, 
is illumined with unctuous brilliancy indescribable in 
its effect. “[hen, when she has seen, she brings her 
dark eyes slowly back to their place, without interfering 
with the immobility of her marble mask. 

In the pride of her beauty, Cynthia rejects all dress 
as an unworthy artifice. She has but two gowns, one 
of black velvet, the other of white watered silk. She 
never wears collars or earrings, not even a finger-ring. 
What ring, what collar, could possibly be worth as 


much as the spot they would cover. One day she 


27 


ebbeb ch bbc hab bbe ch check checbece oh heck 
FORTUNIO 


replied with Cornelian pride to a woman who had 
asked to see her dresses and gems, and who, astonished 
at this excessive simplicity, inquired how she dressed on 
gala days and ceremonies: “I take off my gown and 
take out my comb.” 

That evening she was in demi-toilette, wearing her 
black velvet dress next to the skin without a chemise 
or a corset. 

As for Arabella, I scarce know what to say of her, 
save that she was a charming woman. Supreme grace- 
fulness marked her every motion. Her gestures were 
so soft, so harmonious, that they were rhythmic and 
musical. She was a Parisian of Parisians. She could 
not be called beautiful exactly, and yet there was about 
her such an exciting zest, so highly spiced with airs 
and graces and manners peculiar to herself, that her. 
lovers themselves would have maintained that there 
was no woman on earth so perfect in beauty. Her 
somewhat capricious nose, eyes not very large but 
sparkling with wit, a slightly sensual mouth, pale rosy 
cheeks framed in by silky brown hair, composed the 
most adorably saucy face imaginable. For the rest, 
she had small feet, slender hands, a well shaped figure, 


neat, well turned ankles and wrists, — every mark of 


28 


bb bbb bbs bbb bbb baht 
FORTUNIO 


being thorough-bred. I will spare you the description 
of her dress. You must be satisfied with knowing that 
she was dressed in the fashion of to-morrow. 

“Come! there is no doubt that Fortunio is playing 


> 


us false,” cried the host, swallowing a deep draught of 
Constantia wine. ‘I have a great mind, when I next 
meet him, to propose that we should cut each others’ 
throats.” 

“TI am of your opinion,” said Arabella, “for it is 
not easy to meet my lord Fortunio. Chance is the 
only one clever enough to do so. I wanted to meet 
him, — not to cut his throat, far from it; but I could 
not find him, though I looked for him in every place 
where he might be, next in every place where he might 
not be. I went to the Bois de Boulogne, to the 
Bouffes, to the Opera, yes, even to church! and no 
more met Fortunio than if he had never lived. Fortu- 
nio is not a man, he is a dream.” 

“¢ What was it that you were in such a hurry to ask 
of him?” said Musidora, with a lazy glance at 
Arabella. 

“<The genuine slippers of a Chinese princess, as he 
told me one morning when he was somewhat tipsy, 


and which he promised to give me after he had kissed 


29 


HLELALALLLELLALALALLALL ELAS 
FORTUNIO 


my foot, because I was the only woman in France who 
could wear them.” 

““ Why don’t you go to his residence?” said Alfred, 
Cynthia’s expectant lover. 

“To his residence! ‘That is easy to say, but diffi- 
cult to do.” 

“©-Yes, he must be out a good deal. He is a man of 


b 


many distractions,” added the ex-lover. 

‘You do not understand me. To go to his resi 
dence, first you must know where it is.” 

‘Yet he has got to live somewhere, unless he roosts, 
which is of course possible,” said George. ‘ Does 
any one of you adorable princesses know by any 
chance on what branch of a miraculous tree that fine 
bird has built its nest ? ” 

“If I knew it, Messer Giorgio, I should not be here, 
I swear to you, and you may believe me,” said the 
silent Roman. 

“Nonsense!” said Alfred, “ who wants a residence? 
Ladies nowadays offer hospitality so lavishly.” 

““ Which of you, then, ladies, serves as a residence 
for Fortunio? ” 


> 


‘‘'You are talking nonsense,’ 


replied George gravely. 
“Where would he put his clothes and his boots? A 


30 


teteteteétere rarererierie er kbbbh 
FORTUNIO 


man must always have a house to put his boots in. 
Besides, we had supper with Fortunio not long ago, 
and you were there, unless I am mistaken.” 

“So I was,” said Alfred; ‘“‘I had forgotten.”’ 

“¢T was there also,” said Arabella. ‘For the matter 
of that, his supper was a good deal better than yours, 
George, although you pique yourself on being an adept 
in such matters. But it proves nothing, except that 
Fortunio is the most mysterious of mortals.” 

‘¢’ There is nothing mysterious in entertaining twenty 
people at supper.” 

‘“‘ Certainly not, but here is where the mystery lies, 
I had myself driven to the mansion where Fortunio 
received us, and no one seemed to know what I was 
talking about. Fortunio was perfectly unknown there. 
I set on foot inquiries which at first were fruitless, 
but at last I managed to find out that a young man 
whose name was not known, but who was exceed- 
ingly like him, had purchased the mansion for two 
hundred thousand francs, which he paid in bank notes, 
and that as soon as the bargain was struck an army of 
upholsterers and workmen of all sorts invaded the 
house and with magical speed placed it in the condition 


you saw it in. Numerous servants in full livery, a 


31 


che oho abe abroad ole che ob cto cba ole fe obec 


t ef; 
HOR TUNG 


fe 
te 
+ 
i 
- 
1 


chef, accompanied by a host of aids and kitchen ser- 
vants bearing in great covered baskets provisions 
enough for an army, had arrived no one knows whence 
the very night of the supper. The next morning 
everything disappeared, the servants went away just as 
they had come, and Fortunio walked out not to return. 
There was left in the mansion only the old janitor to 
open the windows from time to time and air the 
rooms.” 

“© Tf Arabella had drunk water only during the meal, 
I might perhaps believe what she is telling,” broke in 
Phoebe, “but her story strikes me as being as crazy 
and disordered as the globules of champagne which rise 
to the surface of my glass. She takes us for children, 
and tells us fairy tales with deplorable seriousness.” 

“¢ Indeed, you lunatic Phoebe, is that your opinion ? ” 
cried Arabella, with the dry, sharp tone which women 
alone know how to take among themselves. “ Yet 
my tale is a much truer story than many another.” 

‘¢ Just let Phoebe talk, and go on,” interrupted Mu- 
sidora, whose curiosity was at last stirred. 

‘“‘T tried every means, — that is to say, I tried the 
only means with which one may corrupt somebody or 


something, to corrupt the virtuous dragon of the en- 


32 


LEELLELELALEALALLALLL ELS 
FORTUNIO 


chanted castle. I gave him a great deal of money, but 
the conscientious rascal, who perhaps was afraid that I 
should take my money back, could not tell me any- 
thing simply because he knew nothing, which is an 
excellent reason for discretion. For the rest, the 
worthy man, very sorry at not having any secrets to 
betray, kindly offered to show me the entire house on 
the chance that I might find something which would 
enlighten me. I accepted, and preceded by the old 
fellow, who opened the most secret places, I visited 
every part with extreme care. I saw nothing which 
could enlighten my ignorance ; there was not a scrap 
of paper, not a word, not a number. I went to the 
dealer who had sold the furniture, and who is one of 
the most celebrated in Paris. He had not seen For- 
tunio. It was a middle-aged man, looking like a 
steward and with the ways of a usurer, who had made 
every purchase. He did not know him at all other- 
wise. We had all been the dupes of a hallucination, 
and we had only thought we had supped with Fortunio.” 

“‘ This is very strange — very strange — excessively 
strange,” murmured the elegant Alfred, who for quite 
a time had not needed a mirror to see double. “ Ha, 


ha! his creditors must be nicely sold.” 


3 33 


Sebbbht teehee eh ttt bE tee 
FORTUNIO 


“ Nonsense! he has removed somewhere else or 
gone to the country ; there is nothing mysterious in all 
that,” said George. 

“ What is Fortunio? ”’ said Phoebe. 

“Why, Fortunio is Fortunio,” broke in Alfred. 
“© What does it matter to you?” 

“¢ He is a worthy gentleman, the most genuine mar- 
quis in the world. My father knew his very well 
indeed. His coat of arms would adorn any carriage,” 
added George reflectively. 

““He is very handsome,” said Cynthia, “ as hand- 
some as Guido’s Saint Michael in Rome with which I 
was in love when I was a child.” 

“No one has finer manners, and besides he is as 


> 


witty as Mercutio,”’ continued Arabella. 

“© He is said to be enormously rich, richer than all 
the Rothschilds together, and as generous as the mag- 
nifico in La Fontaine’s tale,’’ put in Phcebe. 

‘Then who is the mistress of that happy personage, 
who seems to have had a fairy godmother?” said 
Musidora. 

“No one knows, for to all these virtues Fortunio 
joins absolute reserve; but certainly it is not one of 


you, for whichever it was would have shouted it on the 


34 


thebbbttetetetetttttttttes 
FORTUNIO 


housetops,” answered George. “ It shall be you if you 
like —or if you are able, for Fortunio appears to be 
very thoroughly protected against the darts of love, and 
the glances of your cat’s eyes, sharp and burning 
though they are, do not appear to me likely to find 
the point of his armour.” 

‘A young English peer with six hundred thousand 
a year blew out his brains on my account,” said Musi- 
dora disdainfully. 

‘Yes, but you may jump over a bridge with your 
handsomest dress and a brand-new bonnet, before you 
get Fortunio.”’ 

“© He is a devil, then, your Fortunio? Never mind; 
I wager I will make him madly in love with me before 
six weeks are past.” 

“If he were only a devil, it would not be so diffi- 
cult, and you could easily manage to do what you pro- 
pose. To deceive the devil is child’s play for a 
woman.” 

“ Then he is an angel?” 

“Not an angel, either. But you shall judge for 
yourself, for the gates of the mansion have just been 
thrown open, and I hear the sound of a carriage in the 


court. It must be he. I will wager my dapple-gray 


oi) 


FORTUNIO 


horses against one of your curl-papers, that you will 
not find a spot as big as a mouse-hole by which you 
can penetrate into Fortunio’s heart.” 

‘¢ In that case, I shall drive to Longchamp in a car- 
riage and four,” said the girl, joyfully clapping her 
hands. 

«© Mr. Fortunio !” called in a shrill voice, which for 
a moment overcame the buzz of conversation and the 
clinking of glasses, a tall mulatto in a quaint costume. 

All heads were suddenly turned in that direction; the 
meal was suspended. 

Fortunio walked firmly and quickly towards George’s 
arm-chair and shook hands with him. 

“ Ah, good morning, Fortunio! Why the devil are 
you so late?” 

“You must pardon me, ladies; I have just come 
from Venice, where I had been invited to a very bril- 
liant masked ball at the Princess Fiamma’s. I forgot 
to tell George when he met me at the Opera and asked 
me to come to his entertainment. I have scarcely had 
time to change my clothes.” 

“Oh! If you go to balls in Venice, I have nothing 
more to say, but I rather think, Fortunio, that I saw 


you on the Boulevard de Gand less than a week ago. 


36 


ttttrttbeettttebbttebttetes 
PF O;RRE-UIN: LO 


You are lying like an epitaph or an official newspaper, 
my young friend.” 

“ Quite right; I was on the Boulevard de Gand 
with Marcilly. There is nothing surprising in that.” 

“Oh! nothing, unless you own Faust’s travelling- 
cloak, or have found a means to steer balloons or to 
ride on eagles ; otherwise that ubiquity of yours appears 
rather improbable to me.”’ 

“Nonsense !”’ said Fortunio, chinking the money in 
his purse with a careless gesture, “if you ride this kind 
of thing you can get on much faster than if you had a 
hippogriff between your legs. Now I should much 
like to have a drink. My tongue is dried up for want 
of liquor. Mercury, bring me the Hercules cup! ” 

The Hercules cup was a great carved vase as large 
as the brazen sea supported by twelve oxen, spoken 
of in the Bible, and which the greatest topers never 
lifted save with some dismay. 

“Mercury, pour into that thimble a drop of any 
kind of liquor, for thirst stifles me as if it were a neck- 
tie drawn too tight.” 

Mercury poured from on high, like the pages in 
Terburg’s paintings, the contents of an antique urn 


magnificently chased, the handles of which were 


37 


LKELAEALELLLLAALLALLLALA AAA 
FORTUNIO 


formed of two Cupids, trying to embrace each other. 
Young Fortunio seized the heavy cup with a firm 
hand and emptied it at a draught. This splendid deed 
won him universal admiration. 

‘“©Oh, Mercury! Is there not some of this cheap 
wine left in your master’s cellar? I should like to 
have another cup of it.” 

Mercury, astounded, hesitated a second, glancing to 
George to know if he should obey, but George’s eyes, 
in a mist of intoxication, did not express anything. 

“Well, you brute! Must I repeat things twice? 
If I were your master, I would have you skinned alive 
and hung up by the feet until I could do better for you.” 

Mercury hastened to take another vase from another 
sideboard, overset it above the cup, then withdrew with 
a timid air, and stood at a distance on one foot, looking 
like a heron in a marsh, awaiting the result with a sort 
of respectful anxiety. 

Worthy Fortunio drained the vast cup with a facil- 
ity which gave proof of long and patient study as to 
the best way of imbibing lush, as Master Alcofribas 
Nasier would say. 

““ Now, gentlemen, [ am all ready. I have made up 


for lost time, and we can sup quietly. Perhaps you 


38 


$ttet¢te¢e¢etteetetettteteese 
bE OPRTTGUIIN, LO: 


thought I came late for fear of having to drink, and 
entertained the most awful suspicions about my man- 
ners. Now you must surely consider me as innocent 
as a three months’ lamb or a boarding-school girl going 
to her first communion.” 

‘©Oh, yes,” said Alfred, “you are as innocent as a 
robber led to the gibbet.”’ 

The suggestion of Fortunio to sup quietly was ab- 
surd, for certainly nothing was more impossible. Jupi- 
ter might have come through the ceiling with his eagle 
and his thunderbolts, and no one would have paid any 
attention to him. 

Musidora was about the only one who appeared to 
have kept her senses. Fortunio’s presence had aroused 
her from her torpor; she was as wide awake as an adder 
that has long been teased with a straw. Her green 
eyes sparkled strangely, her nostrils swelled, the mali- 
cious corners of her mouth were drawn up, she no 
longer leaned against the cushion in her arm-chair, she 
sat upright like a horseman standing in his stirrups 
about to strike and making sure of his blow. George’s 
dapple-gray horses were trotting and prancing in 
her mind, and she saw herself already lying back 


on the cushions of the carriage, raising the fashion- 


39 


Lebbbhbb bbe bebbhbbebeeste 
FORTUNIO 


able dust of the Bois de Boulogne with her whirling 
wheels. 

Besides, Fortunio alone took her fancy quite as 
much as George’s four horses, and the equipage was 
now secondary in importance to the perilous conquest 
which she was attempting. She sought within her 
arsenal for the most murderous glance, the most amor- 
ously victorious smile to address to him and pierce his 
heart. Until the moment came for a deadly blow she 
kept watching Fortunio with deep attention concealed 
under an appearance of trifling. She observed his 
every motion, she surrounded him with lines of circum- 
vallation, and tried to enclose him within a network of 
coquetry. For Fortunio was the living type of the 
virile ideal dreamed of by women, and which men un- 
fortunately realise so rarely, preferring, as they do, to 
abuse the permission which they have of being ugly. 

Fortunio seems to be not more than twenty-four 
years of age. He is of middle stature, well set-up, 
thorough-bred, and vigorous-looking, with a gentle, 
resolute look, broad shoulders, delicate hands and feet, 
a mixture of grace and strength irresistibly effective. 
His movements are as velvety as those of a young 


jaguar, and under their nonchalant slowness, prodigious 


40 


cheb oh heh oh ch ok dh ch cbc obec cb ch babe cheb 
FORTUNIO 


vivacity and quickness make themselves felt. His 
head is of the purest type of Southern beauty, rather 
Spanish than French, rather Arab than Spanish in 
character. No artist could draw a more perfect 
oval than that of his face. His well-shaped nose, 
slightly aquiline and clean cut, relieves the fem- 
inine purity of the other features and gives him 
something of a proud look. Velvety black eyebrows, 
turning bluish at the ends, show clean above his long 
eyelids, which look as if coloured with £oh/, after the 
Oriental fashion. Through a singular chance the 
pupils of his brilliant eyes are of a celestial blue as 
brilliant as the azure of a mountain tarn; impercepti- 
ble brown lines ring them and set off their diamond- 
like brilliancy. His mouth has the vivid, moist rosiness 
becoming very rare indeed, which 1s a sign of richness 
of blood. The somewhat thick lower lip is full of 
voluptuous ardour; the upper, finer, narrower, some- 
what drawn in at the ends with an expression of 
humorous disdain tempered by the kindliness of the 
rest of the face, denotes resolution and great power 
of will. A moustache that does not seem to have 
been often cut, shadows the angles of the mouth with 


soft, silky hair. The delicately rounded chin, with a 


41 


tetbbbbebtbtttebbbtdded kd 
FOR TUN EO 


dimple in the centre, runs by a powerful line into an 
athletic neck,—the neck of a young bull that has 
never known the yoke. ‘The brow, though not as 
high and broad as that of a fashionable poet, is 
nevertheless handsome and broad; the temples are 
smooth, and the parts over which the hair usually 
falls have a satin-like sheen. The tone of the brow is 
fairer than that of the face, tanned by a sun more 
brilliant than ours with a warm, golden tone, under 
which show rosy and bluish tints whose bloom revives 
the somewhat swart dryness of the rich, warm tone 
beloved of artists. Hair as black as a crow’s lustrous 
wing, long, and slightly curled, falls around the pale 
face in happy disorder. ‘The ear is small and colour- 
less, and seems to have been pierced. 

So far as the hideous modern costume enables one 
to judge, his frame is admirably proportioned ; his limbs 
round and vigorous, muscles of steel covered with a 
velvety skin, something like the Indian Bacchus in the 
Museum of Antiquities, which in its harmonious per- 
fection rivals the Venus of Milo herself, for there is 
nothing on earth so beautiful as grace united to strength. 
Under the dazzling whiteness of his shirt front one 


feels there is a broad, powerful chest, solid and polished 


42 


PALL ALALALLALLLALLLAEAL LES 
FORTUNIO 


like marble, on which it must be delightful for a woman 
to rest her head. Arms modelled as beautifully as 
those of Antinots, ending in hands inimitable in their 
perfection, can be guessed at through the close-fitting 
sleeve. 

As for the rest of the costume, I shall not describe 
it, for the description of a modern sack coat and pair 
of trousers would make bolder men than [ draw back 
with horror. But you can imagine what it is by recall- 
ing the masterpieces of the best tailors in Paris, which 
you have admired on some dandy at a concert, at the 
promenade, or elsewhere; then you must mentally add 
a divine elegance, a certain aristocratic and nonchalant 
carelessness, a modesty full of assurance and self- 
possession, a careless grace, manners which you have 
never certainly seen in any dandy: also, on the first 
finger of the left hand a huge diamond fine enough to 
rival the Regent and the Sancy diamonds, casting to 
right and left a blaze of light. 

Musidora was a prey to the most violent emotion, 
although apparently she was quite at her ease. Until 
then she had been kept from loving by a delicate in- 
stinct, a deep feeling for beauty ; amid her mad cour- 


tesan’s life she had remained in perfect ignorance of 


43 


FORT UNI@ 


passion. Her senses, excited too early, were dulled, 
and all the intrigues she began or broke off so easily 
were dictated by interest or mere fancy. As is the case 
with all women who have known many men, the sex in- 
spired her with deep disgust. Dainty Musidora thought 
all men thoroughly despicable, and also exceedingly 
ugly. Their exterior did not please her any more than 
their minds. Insignificant or deformed, earthy or apo- 
plectic, with bilious or blotched faces, blue when shaved, 
marked with deep wrinkles, rough wild hair, muscular, 
hairy arms did not charm her. ‘The excessive delicacy 
of her temperament made her feel these defects much 
more keenly; a man who was but a man to robust 
Cynthia seemed a wild boar to her. Although Mu- 
sidora was eighteen, she was not really a woman, she 
was not even a girl, she was a child, utterly cor- 
rupt, it is true, and concealing within her frail form 
hyperdiabolical wickedness. With her candid air, she 
would have duped cardinals and tricked Talleyrand. 
She therefore had remarkable advantages over her 
rivals, for her well-known indifference and coldness 
were a sort of virginity which any one would have 
been glad to take from her. She had the art of creat- 


ing obstacles and irritating desire by erecting a barrier 


44 


FORTUNIO 


against it. She was less fortunate this time, however, 
in her attempts at seduction. In spite of her kitten- 
like airs and her pretty manners, Fortunio paid her only 
just as much attention as a well-bred man does to any 
woman sitting near him; that is, the meaningless semi- 
familiar attentions which one indulges in with a pretty 
woman. 

Musidora did her best to draw him into more tender 
conversation and some of those rather warmly gallant 
phrases which may be taken at a pinch for a confes- 
sion, or even for a plain declaration of love; but 
Fortunio, like a sly fish, wisely played around the 
net, and did not enter it. He replied evasively to 
Musidora’s insinuating questions, and at the very’ 
moment when she thought she had him, would break 
away with an unexpected joke. She tried every pos- 
sible plan, made false confidences to him in order to 
obtain real ones, questioned him about his travels, his 
life, and his tastes. Fortunio drank, ate, laughed, said 
yes or no, and slipped between her fingers more fluid 
and more difficult to retain than quicksilver. 

“Why, George!” said Musidora, bending towards 
him, “this man is like a porcupine. I do not know 


how to take him.’’ 


45 


KLAKKKEL LESS AAA LAE e tse 
FORTUNIO 


“Take care not to spit your heart on one of his 
quills, my queenlet,” replied George. 

‘© What life has he led? what is he made of ?”’ said 
Musidora, troubled. 

“The devil knows,”’ replied George, with a shrug of 
the shoulders full of meaning. 


|» 


“ Fortunio! Fortunio!” cried Arabella, rising at the 
other end of the table; ‘* When am I going to get your 
Chinese princess’s slippers?” 

‘They are in your room, fair lady, carefully placed 
on the tiger skin which you use for a carpet.” 

‘¢ Nonsense, Fortunio! you have never entered my 
bedroom, and last night there were certainly no slippers 
at the foot of my bed.” 

“‘ Probably you did not look carefully. I assure you 
they are there,” said Fortunio, imbibing a deep draught 
of wine. 

Arabella smiled incredulously. 


> 


‘Ts it true,” said Musidora, with childish coquetry, 
“that these slippers were given to you by a Chinese 
princess ?”’ 

“J think so,” replied Fortunio. ‘She was called 


Yu Tsu. A lovely girl! She had a silver ring in her 


nostrils and her brow was covered with gold plates. I 


46 


_—=— 


LKEALAALLALLPLALEALLE LAL LE LS 
PORT UNIO 


wrote madrigals for her, in which I told her that she 
had a jade-like skin and eyes like willow leaves.” 

“© Was she prettier than I?” broke in Musidora, 
looking towards Fortunio as if to make the comparison 
easier. 7 

“Tt depends. ‘She had small wrinkled eyes turned 
up at the corners, a flat nose, and red teeth.” 

“Oh, the monster! she must have been hideous.”’ 

“Not at all; she passed for an incomparable beauty. 
All the mandarins were madly in love with her.” 

“¢ And were you?”’ said Musidora, piqued. 

“She adored me, and I let her do so.”’ 

“¢ Mr. Fortunio, either you are amazingly conceited 
or else you are making fun of us. You bought the 
slippers in some curiosity shop.” 

“¢T swear to you I did not. You ask questions and 
I answer them. As for the slippers, they were not 
bought. Besides, who has not gone to China some 
time or another? Won’t you have some of this 
sherry? It is excellent.” 

“¢ Pass me your glass,”’ said Musidora with a graceful 
smile. Fortunio held it out to her without being 
astonished at so signal a favour. Musidora carried to 


her lips the side which Fortunio’s mouth had touched. 


47 


When she had drunk, he filled and emptied the glass 
very quietly, as if a young and lovely woman had not 
just touched it familiarly with her pretty, rosy lips. 

Musidora did not give up the game, but by a clever 
movement threw off her satin slipper and put her 
foot on Fortunio’s. Her silk stockihg, more tenuous 
than a cobweb, enabled the perfection and the ivory 
polish of this Cinderella-like foot to be felt in full. 

“Don’t you think, Fortunio, I could put on your 
princess’s slippers ? ” said Musidora, her cheeks burning 
as she lightly pressed Fortunio’s foot with her own. 

“They would be too large for you,” quietly replied 
Fortunio, and he went on drinking without further 
ceremony. 

This might have passed for a compliment but for 
Fortunio’s indifferent air, so Musidora did not look 
upon it as a favourable omen. Seeing that her efforts 
were in vain, she changed her plan, affected indiffer- 
ence, — without, however, taking away her foot, — 
and talked with George. Her coldness was no more 
successful than her coquetry had been. Fortunio spoke 
to her at long intervals only, as if to discharge a duty. 
Musidora thought she noticed that Fortunio was slightly 


pressing her knee, but she soon found out her mistake. 


48 


che ah oe ah oe fe be ae che he cde cde che cb ob che ob cde abe be dee 
FORTUNIO 


While this business was going on, I need not say 
that the rest of the company were drinking heavily and 
indulging in the most gigantic bacchanal imaginable. 
The fashionable Alfred called for the heads of tyrants 
and the abolition of the slave trade, to the great amaze- 
ment of the negro waiters, astounded at such sudden 
philanthropy ; two of the gentlemen had suddenly slipped 
from their chairs under the table and were snoring 
like priests in church; the others were warbling and 
shrieking something or another in most lamenta- 
ble and funereal fashion, an agreeable occupation 
which they interrupted from time to time to relate 
to themselves their own successes, for no one was fit 
to listen. 

The women, who had resisted longer, were at last 
being drawn into the whirlpool. Arabella was so 
tipsy that she forgot to be coquettish; Phoebe, her 
two elbows on the table, was gazing with stupid 
fixity at one of the figures of the centre-piece which 
she did not see. As for the Roman, she was wonder- 
ful in her placid peace. She was gently wagging her 
head and seemed to beat time to music that she alone 
could hear; an idle smile played upon her half-opened 


lips like a bird over a rose, and her long dark lashes 


4 49 


LEE LL bbb bbb bbb bt 
FORTUNIO 


and black eyes cast a deep shadow over her rosy 
cheeks. Her two hands were placed one upon the 
other like those of the Roman woman in Ingres’ mag- 
nificent portrait, and her striking calm was in marked 
contrast with the general turbulence. 

As for Musidora, the drop of sherry was beginning 
to go to her head. Her brow was pearly with a slight 
perspiration, fatigue overcame her in spite of herself, 
the little golden dust of sleep began to roll in her eyes ; 
she dozed off like a little bird that feels warm in its 
downy nest. From time to time she half opened 
her lovely eyelids to look at Fortunio, whose splendid 
profile stood out superbly against the background of 
dazzling light. “Then she closed them, seeing him all 
the same, for the beginnings of the dreams she in- 
dulged in were still full of Fortunio. Then she let 
fall her head like a flower overcharged with dew, 
mechanically drew over her eyes two or three curls 
of her beautiful fair hair as if to make a curtain of 
them, and fell fast asleep. 

“ Ah!” said George, ‘“ Musidora has tucked her 
head under her wing. Look. what a lovely mouth 
she has. She could sleep in the midst of an orchestra 


of drums. She is very pretty, and yet I prefer my 


50 


Stetbeebetettttettttetceeed 
FORTUNIO 


Titians. Between you and me, Fortunio, I have 
never loved any one but the beautiful girl who is 
lying above that door on her bed of red velvet. Just 
look at her hand, her arm, her shoulder! What won- 
derful drawing, what vigour of life and colour! ” 

“Take care, Giorgio carissimo, take care! You worry 
me, you may get pleurisy if you excite yourself thus. 
Preserve yourself for the sake of your worthy parents, 
who want you to be a peer of France and a minister. 
You are wrong to slander nature, which has its value. 
You are talking of the shoulder of that painted wo- 
man? Why, look at Cynthia yonder, who says noth- 
ing and lets her eyes wander on the ceiling, thinking 
perhaps of her first love in a little brick house in the 
Transteverine Quarter, and whose shoulders are finer 
than those of any Titian in Venice or Spain. Come 
here, Cynthia, show us your back and bosom, and 
prove to that fellow George that God is not as unskil- 
ful as he pretends.” 

The beautiful Roman woman rose, gravely undid 
her dress, which slipped down to her waist, and showed 
a bosom wonderful in its purity of line, and shoulders 
and arms fit to make a god come down from heaven to 


kiss them. 


51 


tibebtbbtrttttdbdbdedbdided 
FORTUNIO 


«© Put on your dress, we have seen you enough.” 

The Roman woman slowly went back to her seat. 
As for George, he still repeated, “I prefer my ‘Titians.” 

The candles were burning low; the negroes, worn 
out, had fallen asleep standing leaning against the wall. 
The table, so splendidly set, was in the most fright- 
ful disorder, stained with wine, covered with debris ; 
the elegant confections were falling to pieces, the mar- 
vellous dessert of fruit, pineapples and Chili straw- 
berries, the dishes dressed with such care, all had been 
destroyed, upset, and wasted; the cloth looked like 
a battlefield. Yet some of the more obstinate among 
the guests were still struggling with the despair of 
unfortunate courage, and tried to overcome drunken- 
ness and sleep; but they had lost their dash and 
vigour; they could scarcely make a noise, and were 
unable even to break the china and the glassware, 
which is the violent method used to revive a waning 
orgy. 

George himself was turning green in a very marked 
manner, and had just entered that unhealthy period of 
intoxication when a man begins to talk of morality and 
to celebrate the charms of virtue. Fortunio alone, still 


fresh, his eye clear, his lips red, with a calm restfulness 


52 


——. 


like that of a devotee about to go to communion, his 
mind as free as when he had come in, was playing 
carelessly with his silver-gilt knife, and appeared ready 
to begin again. 

“ Well! ” said Fortunio, “no one drinking! That 
is poor hospitality. I am as dry as sand after a fort- 
night’s drought.” 

An immense bowl of arrack punch was brought in, 
lighted and blazing, the pretty flames gliding over the 
surface like around of will-o’-the-wisps. George filled 
his own glass and Fortunio’s with the blazing liquor, 
seized the bowl by its pedestal and threw it on the 
floor, saying with a gesture of ineffable contempt, “ It 
is better to throw it away than to profane it by giving 
it to such brutes. Let us cook them alive, since they 
will not drink. We are justified in doing so, for they 
are only beasts.” 

The blazing liquid spread over the floor, and the 
bluish tongues began to lick the feet of the sleepers 
and the edges of the tablecloth. The gleam of the 
improvised conflagration at once flashed through the 
most carefully closed eyelids, and soon everybody was 
up—even the worthy gentlemen who had slid down 


at the beginning of the storm and who would unques- 


oye) 


bbb bbb bbe hhh he eeb dhe 
FORTUNIO 


tionably have been cooked alive if Mercury the negro 
and Jupiter the mulatto had not helped them to emerge 
from the dark subterranean places where they were 
lying. : 

“Where is Fortunio?”’ asked Musidora, pushing 
aside her curls. 

‘“¢ Fortunio f ” said George, “‘ he was here just now.” 

“© He has gone,” said Jupiter, respectfully. 

‘© Who knows when we shall see him again? Per- 
haps he has gone to drink with the Grand Mogul or 
Prester John. Qlueenlet, I am afraid you will be 
obliged to go on foot or in a hired carriage like a vir- 
tuous girl. If you come upon him, you will be mighty 
lucky.” 

“ Never mind,” said Musidora, drawing from her 
bosom a small pocket-book with gold corners; “I 
have got his pocket-book.” 

“© Why, you femaled evil! You are a well brought- 
up girl! Never would ordinary parents have thought 


of teaching you to steal.” 


II 


Musrpora did not awake until about three in the 


afternoon, which is a very sensible hour. She care- 


54 


FORTUNIO 


lessly stretched out her arm towards a silk cord hang- 
ing near her bed, but her white hand fell back. 
Musidora’s bed was extremely plain. It in no wise 
resembled the beds of rich middle-class women, that 
look like street altars erected for Corpus Christi Day. 
This bed was as fresh and charming as the interior 
of a harebell. Curtains of Indian muslin lined with 
white cashmere hung in cloudy folds from a broad 
silver rose fixed in the ceiling and fell around an 
elegant bedstead of very pale citron-wood with ivory 
feet and inlaid work. Through the sheets of ideally 
fine, vaporous Holland linen, showed softly the pale 
rose-coloured mattresses filled with the silkiest of 
Thibetan wool. ‘That precious wool, probably the 
real golden fleece that Jason set forth in search of on 
the ship Argo, seemed scarcely costly enough to Musi- 
dora for ordinary mattresses. Her devilish pride was 
inwardly flattered at the thought that her bed held the 
price of the corruption of twenty honest girls, and that 
two or three yards of that woven and dyed wool would 
make the fiercest scruples suddenly yield. A double 
bolster edged with English point-lace yielded softly 
under her little head, sunk in its fair curls scattered 


around her like the water from a naiad’s urn. A white 


55 


bebe bbbeebeetteettttetes 
FORTUNIO 


satin coverlet filled with the costly down which the 
eider plucks from its wings to warm its dear young was 
spread over her like a warm fall of snow, and under 
the folds of the stuff could be faintly seen a charming 
little slope formed by her half-drawn up knee. 

That is how the lovely Musidora was bedded. For 
that single bed, Africa had given its largest elephant 
tusks, America its costliest wood, Mazulipatam its 
muslin, Cashmere its wool, Norway its down, France 
its skill. The whole world had been ransacked, and 
each corner of it had contributed its highest luxury. 
It is only courtesans, who have spent their childhood in 
eating raw apples, who can indulge in such insolently 
brazen luxury. Heliogabalus and Séguin did not 
more enjoy soiling gold and making it vile than this 
frail girl whose name was Musidora. 

However, the girl’s bed, as I have said, was none 
the less of the most maidenly simplicity. The rest of 
the furniture was just as ruinously simple. ‘The walls 
and the ceiling were hung with white satin relieved 
with rose and silver cords. A white carpet, thick as 
the sward strewn with roses that seemed living, covers 
the rosewood floor. Doors so accurately cut in the 


hangings that it was difficult to see where they were, 


56 


che he obs abs abe abe abe abe abe abe abe cbrebe ofl or ae of ole of af fe abe ste ofe 
FORTUNIO 


had handles and guards of beautifully cut Irish crystal. 
The clock was made of a block of Oriental jasper with 
a dial of inlaid platinum. At the bed head, by way of 
night light, there was placed upon an elegant table a 
small red clay Etruscan lamp of the most correct form, 
with charming drawings of winged chimeras and women 
at their toilet. A few chairs, the indispensable sofa, 
and a mosaic table, composed the rest of the furniture. 

Musidora opened her little mouth as wide as she 
could without managing to yawn very wide. Her 
pearly teeth showed like dewdrops within a poppy, and 
most lovely they looked. Musidora’s yawn was more 
graceful than any other woman’s smile. She closed 
her silken eyelashes, lay on her left side, then on her 
right, and seeing that she could not hope to sleep 
again, uttered a soft, languidly modulated sigh as 
full of reverie and thought as a note of Beethoven. 
For the second time she stretched her arm towards her 
bell. An unseen door concealed in the wall opened 
partially, and through the narrow opening glided into 
the room a tall, well-made girl with a picturesque ban- 
dana headdress in the Creole fashion. She came on 
tiptoe to her mistress’s bedside and awaited her orders 


in silence. 


57 


kebtttetetettetetttttchtb ths 
FORTUNIO 


‘“¢ Jacintha, draw back the window-shades and help 
me to sit up.” 

Jacintha drew aside the heavy curtains. A bright, 
saucy ray of sunshine burst into the room like a 
spoiled child, accustomed to be well received every- 
where on account of his gaiety. 

“Oh, you wretch! Do you want to blind me and 
to make me darker than a bear’s nose and the hands 
of a tight-rope dancer?” moaned Musidora. <“ Put out 
that dreadful sun quickly. So, that is right. Now 
beat up my pillows.” 

Jacintha took two or three, which she beat up and 
arranged softly behind the back of her voluptuous 
mistress. 

“What do you wish next, madam?” said Jacintha, 
seeing that Musidora did not make the gesture with 
which she was in the habit of dismissing her. 

“Tell Jack to bring me my English cat, and have 
my bath made ready.” 

The door opened softly, and Jacintha disappeared as 


she had come in. 


58 


kkttetbeeetettttbbttttds 
FORTUNIO 


Ill 


I BELIEVE it not out of place to devote a chapter to 
Musidora’s cat, a charming animal, which is quite as 
good as the lion of Androcles, Pellisson’s spider, the dog 
of Montargis, and other virtuous and learned animals 
whose memory has been preserved by grave historians. 
It is a common saying, “ Like dog, like master,” and 
it might be said also, ‘¢ Like cat, like mistress.”’ Musi- 
dora’s cat was white, fabulously white, whiter than the 
whitest of swans. Milk, alabaster, snow, whatever has 
served to make white comparisons since the beginning 
of the world, would have seemed black by its side. 
Of the millions of imperceptible hairs which composed 
its ermine fur, there was not one which did not shine 
like the purest silver. Imagine a great puff with a pair 
of eyes in it. Never did the most coquettish and man- 
nered woman have the perfect grace and finish of 
movement which this adorable cat exhibited. She un- 
dulated, arched her back, turned her head, curled her 
tail, put out and withdrew her paw in the daintiest 
fashion. Musidora copied her as closely as she could, 
though she was far from equalling her; yet, imperfect 


as was the imitation, it had made Musidora one of the 


59 


LEALLALEALLALALAALLAALALL LAS 


FORTUNIO 


most graceful women in Paris, —that is, in the world, 
for there is nothing here below but Paris. 

A little negro, dressed in black from head to foot by 
way of more striking contrast, is charged with the 
care of this discreet, white creature. He puts her to 
bed every evening in a cradle of sky-blue satin, and 
brings her to her mistress in the morning. He is also 
charged with feeding the cat, combing her, washing her 
ears, smoothing her moustaches, and putting on her 
collar, — a collar of genuine, fine pearls of very great 
price. ‘There are virtuous mortals who will no doubt 
be indignant that so much luxury should be lavished 
upon a mere animal, and who will say that it would 
have been much better to spend the money on bread 
for the poor. ‘To begin with, people do not give bread 
to the poor, they give them a sou, and not very often 
either, for if everybody gave a sou every day, the poor 
would be richer than nabobs. Then I must ask the 
worthy philanthropists who distribute economic soup to 
observe that the existence of Musidora’s cat is just as 
useful as anything else. 

First, it pleases Musidora, and prevents her slapping 
two or three maids a day. Secondly, the little negro, 


who has nothing to do but to care for this animal 


60 


BLRELEALELEAPAAALALA LAL LLY 
FORTUNIO 


would otherwise be cooking in the West Indian sun, 
where he would be thrashed from morning to night and 
from night to morning; instead of which he is well 
fed, well clothed, and all he has to do is to show black 
by the side of the white creature. “Thirdly, the charm- 
ing cat has no greater pleasure than to use her claws 
upon the interior lining of her little sky-blue boudoir, 
so that a new one has to be provided pretty much every 
month, and that is enough to pay for the schooling of 
the two children of Musidora’s upholsterer; so France 
will be indebted to that remarkable white cat for a bar- 
rister and a doctor. Fourthly, three little peasants are 
earning enough to pay for a man if they should be 
drawn by the conscription, by catching with lime little 
birds for the breakfast and dinner of the cat, that would 
refuse to eat them if they were not alive. 

The pretty, voluptuous animal, almost as cruel as a 
woman who is bored, likes to hear her dinner chirping 
in her stomach, and there is nothing living enough for 
her. ‘Io my knowledge that is her one defect. 

As for the collar, it was given to Musidora by a gen- 
eral of the Empire who stole it in Spain from a black 
Madonna. It was in the shape of a bracelet. It 


passed straight from the very white arm of the young 


61 


AEELEALLALLALALALLALLL ELSA 
FORTUNIO 


girl to the whiter neck of the cat. I consider that a 
pearl collar is much more in its place on the velvety 
neck of a pretty cat than on the red and skinny neck 
of an old Englishwoman. 

All this may appear a digression to some of my 
readers. | am entirely of their opinion, but without 
digressions and episodes how could one possibly write a 
novel or poem, and how could one read either after it 


is written ? 


IV 


Wien the negro had brought the white cat and placed 
her by his mistress’s side on the snow-white down 
Musidora, now wide awake, began to remember a cer- 
tain Fortunio whom she had seen the night before at 
George’s supper. ‘The features of the beautiful face, 
made finer by sleep, now showed clearly within her 
memory. She saw him again, handsome, smiling, and 
calm in the midst of the dreadful noise, as inaccessible 
to intoxication as to love. She recalled the wager she 
had made that she would enter with drums beating and 
standards flying into the fortress of that impregnable 
heart before six weeks were out, and that she would 


warm her feet on the very andirons of that elegant 


62 


tttbttttettettttettttttttet 
FORTUNIO 


vagabond whose real dwelling no one knew. The 
victoria with its four dapple-gray horses, its postilions 
in satin jackets, its cracking of whips, and its flash of 
varnish passed before her eyes like a whirlwind. She 
clapped her little hands with joy, so sure was she of 
success. ‘¢ How delightful it will be,” she said, laugh- 
ing to herself, “to take Fortunio driving in the very 
carriage he will have helped me to win!” And to 
begin hostilities, she put her hand under the pillow and 
drew from it the stolen pocket-book, which she had in 
vain tried to open the night before. 

“©] shall manage it,” she said, turning it over in , 
every possible way. ‘Just imagine a woman feeling 
there is a secret behind so slight a guard, and not 
breaking it down. For my part, I would have undone 
the Gordian knot without needing a sword like that 
brute Alexander.” 

Musidora sat up, and with the swiftness of a ferret 
looking for a hole into which she may insert her sharp 
nose to reach some preserve full of milk and fresh 
eggs, began to look for the secret which was to give 
access to the mysterious pocket-book, wherein, no 
doubt, she would find valuable information concerning 


my hero. She felt with her fingers, more delicate than 


63 


SEEKS AEE SSAA Lee etttsese 
Be CN ae) 


the antennz of insects or the horns of a snail, every 
rib and every rugosity of the leather; one after an- 
other, she pressed every turquoise and every chryso- 
prase which studded the two outer surfaces of the 
pocket-book ; she pressed with all her strength, until 
she actually bent back her frail, delicate thumb, upon 
the lock, to overcome the resistance of the spring. 
She might just as well have tried to open a strong-box 
banded with steel. She was so intent upon her attempt 
that a light perspiration began to show upon her delicate 
brow. It was long since she had worked so hard. 

At last, despairing of opening the trusty pocket- 
book, she rang for Jacintha, and called for scissors 
with which to cut a portion of the cover, and thus 
manage to withdraw the letters and papers which might 
be within; but the leather was not even scratched by 
Musidora’s fine English scissors. It was made of 
some lizard or serpent-skin tougher than bison or 
buffalo-skin. The imbricated scales, which Musidora 
had mistaken for stamped or symmetrical work, pre- 
vented any cutting of the leather. 

However, Musidora had touched by chance the spot at 
which the pocket-book opened. The covers separated 
with a sharp snap like the click of a jack-in-the-box. 


64 


che cde abe ol te oh eh che abe ected ocho cde cheb che abe obo 


The young girl let fall the pocket-book on her lap, 
expecting to see spring from it an irritated genie as out 
of the magic jars of Arab tales, or an asp coiled up 
on its tail, Pandora never gazed in a more fearful 
attitude at the box of which she had raised the 
cover, and from which escaped in a dense smoke all 
the ills that afflict this earth. Yet, seeing that nothing 
came out, Musidora became reassured and picked 
up the book to examine it and ascertain what she had 
discovered. 

A quaint, exotic, intoxicating perfume, unlike any | 
known scents, spread through the room and acted vo- 
luptuously upon the olfactory nerves of the curious 
beauty. She stopped a moment to breathe in that 
strange aroma, then plunged her inquisitive fingers 
into the different parts of the pocket-book, which were 
made of silvery Chinese silk flushed with gold and 
greenish tints. 

The first thing she drew from it was a large flower 
of curious shape, from which the colour seemed long 
since to have vanished. It was the Pavetta Indica, of 
which. Dr. Rumphius speaks in his “ Hortus Mala- 
baricus.” This gave no very clear information con- 


cerning my lord Fortunio. 


5 65 


Next, Musidora pulled out a small tress of blue hair 
intertwined with gold threads and having at each end a 
pierced golden sequin. ‘Then a sheet of Japan paper 
covered with curious characters interlaced like network, 
on a background of silver flowers. She supposed this 
to be some plaintive epistle from the Princess Yu Tsu 
to the Lord Fortunio. 

Musidora did not quite know what to make of this 
pocket-book so curiously filled; nevertheless, hoping to 
come across some more European and intelligible find, 
she emptied the other two pockets. All she got was a 
golden needle rusted and reddened at the point, and a 
small piece of papyrus covered with a great many 
characters which looked as if they might be in Orien- 
tal writing. The disappointed girl angrily threw the 
pocket-book into the very middle of the room. 

“¢ Alas!” said she, looking with an air of deep com- 
miseration at her pretty fingers still marked with the 
useless work imposed upon them, “I shall not have 
the carriage, I shall not have Fortunio ! — Jacintha, 
take me to my bath.” 

Jacintha threw around her mistress a great wrapper 
of muslin, took her up in her arms and lifted her like a 
sick child. 


66 


tebbbteettttttttbttttetes 
FORTUNIO 


V 


Ir Musidora is very much put out, | am even more 
so, for I reckoned upon that pocket-book to give my 
readers — may I be forgiven this piece of vanity !— 
accurate information concerning my mysterious hero. 
I had hoped that the pocket-book would contain love 
letters, drafts of tragedies, novels in two volumes or 
more, or visiting cards at least, as would necessarily 
be the case with the pocket-book of any well-condi- 
tioned hero. Cruel, indeed, is my embarrassment. 
For since Fortunio is the hero of my own choice, it 
is right that we should be interested in him and wish 
to know whatever he does. I must speak of him 
often, he must rise above the other characters and get 
to the end of my two hundred odd pages, dead or alive. 
And yet never was a hero more troublesome. You 
expect him and he does not come; you have got hold 
of him and he vanishes without a word, instead of 
making fine speeches and long discourses in poetic 
prose, as he ought to do in his character of hero of a 
novel. 

It is true that he is handsome, but between you and 


me, I think he is eccentric, as tricky as a monkey, 


67 


LLLSE ALE See teettet ba bes 
HORT UNTO 


full of conceit and caprice, more changeable than the 
moon, more variable than a chameleon. To these de- 
fects, which I can still forgive him, he adds that of 
refusing to speak of his own business to any one, 
which is unpardonable. He is satisfied with laughing, 
drinking, and being a well-bred man. He does not 
discourse of the passions, or of the metaphysics of the 
heart ; he does not read fashionable novels ; he tells, by 
way of adventures, of Malay or of Chinese intrigues 
only, which can in no wise harm the great ladies 
of the noble Faubourg. He does not roll his eyes 
at the moon at dessert, and never talks of any actress. 
In a word, he is a mediocre man who every one, I 
know not why, insists is witty, and whom I am very 
sorry to have taken for the principal character in my 
novel. 

I have a good mind to drop him. Suppose I were 
to take George in his place? The latter has the 
abominable habit of getting tipsy morning and evening 
and sometimes during the course of the day, and also 
occasionally at night. What would you say, madam, 
to a hero that was always drunk and would talk for 
two hours at a stretch on the difference between the 


right and the left pinion of a partridge? 


68 


“ What of Alfred?” 

“‘ He is too stupid.” 

“ And de Marcilly ?” 

“¢ He is not stupid enough.” 

So, for lack of a better, I shall keep Fortunio, and 
as soon as I know anything about him, I shall tell it to 
you. So let us, if you please, enter Musidora’s bath- 


room. 


VI 


Musipora’s bathroom is octagonal in form; the walls 
are lined half way up with small square tiles of blue 
and white porcelain. Paintings in light green mono- 
chrome representing Diana and Calisto, Salmacis and 
Hermaphrodite, Hylas surrounded by nymphs, Leda 
surprised by the swan, framed in richly wrought frames 
with reeds and water plants carved and silvered, are 
placed above the doors, over which hang chintz por- 
tires with a tiny flower pattern. Shells, madrepores, 
and corals ranged along the cornice complete the 
aquatic decoration. 

The windows, glazed with azure blue and pale-green 
glass, shed on this mysterious retreat a soft and voluptu- 


ously chastened light, so that one might believe one’s 


69 


abs abe abs abs obs abe abe abe obs abe obs abeale obras obs ole oe obe be ofl ob cbr ole 


js SO WTO VES WHS wT OK ope we oe oFe xe ac 


FORTUNIO 


self in the very palace of an Undine ora naiad. A 
beautiful bath of white marble supported by gilded 
claws fills up one end of the room. Opposite is the 
couch. 

Musidora has just been brought by Jacintha to the 
edge of the bath-tub. While two handsome girls 
plunge their rosy arms into the tepid, smoking water, 
so as to make sure that the heat is even at the head 
and the foot, she walks about the room in Turkish 
fashion on two little pattens, and complains in a dying 
voice of the slowness and unskilfulness of her people, 
with as graceful impertinence as a duchess of the 
proudest times. Finally she draws near the bath lined 
with linen of exquisite fineness, slightly lifts her small, 
rounded, and polished leg and dips the tip of her toe 
into the water. 

‘¢ Jacintha, support me!” she says, as she falls back 
upon the shoulder of her kneeling maid, “I am 
fainting ! ” 

Then, in a sharp voice, the dryness of which 
scarcely matches her soft and affected manner: “So 
you want to cook me alive, to make me as red as a 
lobster for a week! Iam quite sure that this evening 


the skin of my foot will come off with my stocking,” 


7O 


Steetebetretttetettetttes 
HORT UN LO 


she adds, speaking to the two maids. “Can you never 
prepare a bath properly ? ” . 

The bath was cooled. Musidora then ventured to 
put in her other leg, knelt down, her arms crossed on 
her bosom like the antique statues of Modesty, and at 
last stretched herself out in the water like a serpent 
compelled to untwist. Then she had some other com- 
plaint to make: the linen was so coarse it scratched 
her and marked her back and loins; that was always 
the way, they always did it on purpose,—she did not 
know what would come next; ina word, all that bad 
temper and disappointed curiosity can suggest to a 
pretty, wilful woman who has never been contradicted 
once in her life. 

The soft warmth of the bath, however, seemed to 
diminish this nervous irritation, and Musidora let her 
lovely arms float nonchalantly over the water. Some- 
times she raised them and enjoyed with childish curios- 
ity seeing the water divide on her skin and roll to the 
right and to the left in transparent pearls. 

Jacintha entered and whispered something to Musi- 
dora. It was to say that Arabella asked to see her. | 

“Tell her to come in,”’ said Musidora, raising her 


body so as to bring it from the bottom of the bath to 


aN 


ieeeereeeeeteebtttetetest 
FORTUNYDO 


the surface, in order that the glance should have to 
traverse only a thin layer of crystal to see the sub- 
merged perfections; for she knew that Arabella had 
said that she was thin, and she was not sorry to give 
the lie in unmistakable fashion to that statement; for 
Musidora, by a privilege peculiar to organizations of 
very strong vitality, was at once very slender and very 
plump. 

“Well, you beauty, how are you? ” said Arabella as 
she kissed Musidora. 

“Fairly well, my health is improved. For some 
time past I have been putting on flesh,” and the vin- 
dictive girl drew herself up still more. The tips of her 
breasts and one of her knees emerged from the water. 
‘©T seem thinner, don’t I, when I am dressed?” she 
went on, fixing her cat-like eyes on Arabella, who 
could not help blushing a little. 

‘¢ Yes, you are as plump as a little ortolan rolled in 
lard. ‘That is a charming surprise you keep for your 
favoured ones. Usually one is deceived in the opposite 
way. But you do not know what has brought me.” 

“ No; do you?” said Musidora, smiling. 

‘“‘ First, the pleasure of seeing you.” 


“That is not a sufficient reason.’’ 


cae 


bebtebettttttettettttttes 
FORTUNIO 


“Well, I have come to tell you of an absurd, un- 
imaginable, mad, impossible thing which upsets all 
preconceived notions. If I believed in the devil, I 
should say it was the devil in person.” 

“¢ Have you really seen the devil, Arabella? I wish 
you would introduce him to me since you know him,” 
said Musidora, with a half-incredulous look. “I have 
long desired to meet him.” 

“¢ ‘You remember the Chinese princess’s slippers that 
Fortunio promised me? Well, I found them, just as 
he said, on the tiger skin at the foot of my bed. All 
the doors were closed, and that to my bedroom opens 
only by a combination which I alone know. Is it not 
strange? Fortunio is a demon in black coat and white 
gloves. How did he manage to pass through the key. 
hole with these slippers?” 

“© Perhaps you have some secret door, the key te 
which has been given him by some of your former lov 
ers,” said Musidora, with a somewhat venomous smile 

““No; that room is the one where I keep my dia 
monds and my jewels. It has but one door, which 
carefully closed when I left to go to George’s supper. 
Meanwhile, here are the slippers.” 


Arabella drew from her bosom two little shoes curi- 


13 


sh oe oe ols oe be obs oho oe ob chee el abe cba abe be ofl ab abe abe hocks 


owe we CTO CHO OFS we 


FORTUNIO 


ously embroidered with gold thread and pearls, most 
Chinese in design and the prettiest imaginable. 

‘©Why, the pearls are real, and the work is the 
finest of Eastern work !” said Musidora, examining the 
slippers. ‘¢It is a much more valuable gift than you 
fancied. Just look at those two pearls — Cleopatra’s 
were neither purer nor rounder.” 

“‘ Fortunio is really Oriental in his magificence, but 
he is as invisible as an Eastern king; he only shows 
himself when he chooses. I am afraid, dear Musidora, 
you will lose your wager.” 

““T am greatly afraid of it, too, Arabella. I pre- 
tended to go to sleep, but I profited by a moment 
when Fortunio, who did not mistrust me, had his 
attention called away, to snatch from him his pocket- 
book, the corner of which showed through his coat. 
To begin with, the accursed thing would not open, 
and I spent some two hours in finding the myste- 
rious sesame which caused the springs to fly back and 
give up the precious secrets so carefully concealed. But 
as if Fortunio had guessed my intention, I found only a 
dried flower, a needle, and two bits of blackened paper 
covered with the most abominable scrawls. Is it not 


atrociously derisive ? ”’ 


74 


KAPHA LE LALA AAAAALL Ses 
FORTUNIO 

“¢ May I see the pocket-book ?” said Arabella. 

“< Yes, if you wish to. I threw it away angrily in 
my room. Jacintha, go and fetch it.” 

Jacintha returned with the mysterious pocket-book. 

Arabella smelled it all over, turned it, examined its 
every recess, but could discover nothing new. She 
remained thoughtful for a moment, and then, — 

“© Musidora,” she said, “I have thought of some- 
thing. “Those papers must be written in some sort of 
a language. We ought to goto the Collége de France. 
There are professors of all sorts of languages there. 
We shall surely learn from these gentlemen, who are 
said to be so erudite, the explanation of this riddle.” 

“Jacintha! Mary! Annette! Come and take me 
quickly out of this bath where I have been rotting for 
an hour. I can already feel drops of water growing 
out of my arms, and my hair is becoming as seaweed- 
like as that of a marine nymph,” said Musidora, stand- 
ing up in her bath. The sparkling drops of water, 
racing over her body, formed, as it were, a net-work 
of pearls ; she was lovely in that attitude. Her skin 
lightly touched by the kiss of the air, her long, fair hair 
falling upon her back and shoulders, her face gently 
flushed with the humidity of the bath, she looked like 


75 


ALADLAALALALLALALALAL ELLA? L SSS 
FORTUNI O 


a sylph rising with the first moonbeams from the heart 
of the flower bell where she has taken refuge during 
the day. 

The servants hastened up, sponged off her body the 
last tears of the naiad, enveloped her carefully in a 
great cashmere wrapper over which they threw a vast 
Turkish shawl, put her feet into elegant slippers lined 
with swan’s-down, and Musidora, leaning on the shoul- 
der of her maid Jacintha, passed into her dressing- 
room with her friend Arabella. 

‘There she was combed and perfumed, she put on a 
chemise with exquisite Valenciennes lace, she was 
shod, and every one of her clothes was put on her 
without her helping herself in the smallest degree. 
But when the maids had finished, she rose, stood before 
the mirror, and like a master who adds here and there 
a touch to the work carried out according to his design, 
by one of his pupils, she untied a ribbon, gave another 
form to a fold, passed her slender fingers through the 
masses of her hair to derange their too exact symme- 
try, and gave accent, life, and a poetic turn to the 
colourless work of her women. 

Thereafter they breakfasted quickly, and Jack an- 


nounced that the carriage was waiting. 


76 


HLELAEALELLALALAELAELAAL ALA LALA 
FORTUNIO 


We shall not begin the next chapter, and we shall 
not get into the carriage, without having said how 
Musidora was dressed. She had on a white India 
muslin with close-fitting sleeves, a rice-straw hat with 
a bunch of small flowers ideally delicate and light, a 
Venetian scarf of black lace gracefully thrown over her 
shoulders and somewhat drawn in at the waist, setting 
off admirably the abundance and richness of the folds 
of the dress, which stretched like marble tubes down 
to the smallest feet in the world. Add a jet necklace 
with large beads, mittens of black net, and a small 
watch thinner than a five-franc piece, suspended by a 
small silken cord, and you have Musidora’s dress in 
full, which it is at least as important to be acquainted 
with as the exact year of the death of the Pharaoh 
Amenoteph. 


Vil 


THE carriage stopped before a house of mean appear- 
ance in a lonely, deserted street. You know those 
houses of the last century which have not been touched 
since they were built, and which the avarice of their 
owners allows to fall slowly into ruins, their gray 


walls weather-stained and spotted here and there with 


bebbtttttttebee dhe 
PORT Und 


tkteees 


te 


broad splashes of yellow moss like the trunks of old 
ash-trees. [he substructures are as green as a marsh 
in springtime, and a special flora might be made of all 
the herbs which grow on them. ‘The slates on the 
roof have lost their colour, the wood of the doors is 
rotting and seems ready to fly into splinters at the least 
knock. False windows, formerly painted black to 
resemble panes, the colour of which has run from the 
second story to the first, show that when the house 
was built a very poor attempt was made to obtain 
symmetry. A vane cut out of tin and representing 
a sportsman firing at a hare, creaks at the angle of the 
roof and worthily crowns the sumptuous edifice. 

The groom let down the steps and knocked at the 
door in such masterly fashion that he nearly broke it in. 
The janitress, terrified, put her head out of a broken 
window which she used both as a look-out and asa 
wicket. Her face was a mingling of snout, jowl, and 
muzzle. Her nose, of the most violent crimson, 
and of the shape of a carafe stopper, was studded with 
brilliant grog-blossoms, adorned with three or four 
extraordinarily long and stiff white hairs, like the 
bristles upon the noses of hippopotami, that gave her 


proboscis the look of a holy-water sprinkler. Her two 


78 


abe abe abs obs obs obs ole of abe obs abe abel obo obs ole obs obs ote ob ole ole ob ole 


OFS ote UFO oFe OTS Gee Ghee te Bb in Gan aan ot ye 


EC cinee, (LAN ©) 


cheeks, rayed with red lines and marked with yellow 
blotches, were not unlike two vine-leaves killed by the 
autumn frost. A staring wall eye showed within its 
socket like a candle in a cellar. A sort of tusk of 
doubtful ivory turned up the corner of her upper lip 
like a boar’s tusk and gave the finishing touch to the 
charm of her physiognomy. ‘The lappets of her cap, 
flabby and wrinkled like elephants’ ears, hung down 
her skinny jowls and formed a suitable frame for the 
whole. 

Musidora was very nearly frightened at the sight of 
this grotesque Medusa, who fixed upon her two dirty- 
gray, inquisitive eyes. 

“Ts Mr. V 


“¢ Certainly, madam, he is; he never goes out except 


at home? ”’ asked Arabella. 


to his courses, poor dear man. A very learned man, 
—no more trouble in the house than a tame mouse. 
You will find him at the back of the yard, the left hand 
stair, second story, the door with a hare’s-foot, — you 
cannot mistake.” 

Musidora and Arabella crossed the yard, holding up 
their skirts as if they were walking through a meadow 
wet with dew. ‘The grass was growing between the 


paving stones as freely as in the open ground. 


ite, 


Sheet eeteetetebetttektese 
FORTUNIO 


But, seeing that they hesitated, the horrible Cerberus 
left her room and advanced towards them, waddling 
and limping like a wounded shepherd-spider. 

“<’This way, ladies, this way. ‘This is the path in 
the centre. This is not a house like republics in 
which people come and go; and yet it is not more 
than six weeks since I hurt my hands cutting the 


grass. Are you relatives of Mr. V ee 


Musidora shook her head negatively. 

‘‘] have heard him say that he had some country 
relatives who were coming to Paris.” 

They had now reached Mr. V 


neither Arabella nor Musidora had answered her, the 


*s door, and as 


viscous, sticky beast caught hold of the balustrade and 
let herself slide grumbling to the foot of the stair, trust- 
ing to the cleverness of Miss Césarine, the professor’s 
housekeeper, to obtain fuller information. 

Arabella pulled at the hare’s-foot. The cracked, 
shrill tinkling of a bell was heard in the mysterious 
depths of the apartment, two or three doors were 
opened and closed in the distance, a dry cough was 
heard, and a sound of heavy steps drew near. Fora 
few moments there was a noise of heavy keys and of 


ironwork, of bolts drawn, of padlocks opened. Then 


80 


che oe abe abe obo hs che he che cde he check cece obo fo obe ce ab heh 
FORTUNIO 


the door, slightly ajar, gave passage to the pointed, 
inquisitive nose of Miss Césarine, a beauty long past 
her prime. At the sight of the two young women 
her face instantly assumed a sour expression, tempered, 
however, by the respect inspired by the brilliant gold 
chain which Arabella wore around her neck. 

“We wish to see Mr. V es 


The old woman opened the door wide and showed 


the two beauties into an antechamber which also 
served as a dining-room. It was hung with jasper- 
green paper and adorned with framed engravings rep- 
resenting the four seasons, and a barometer wrapped 
up in gauze to preserve it from the flies. A white 
earthenware stove, the pipe of which was carried into 
the opposite wall, a walnut table, and a few straw- 
bottomed chairs composed the rest of the furniture. 
Small, round pieces of waxed cloth were placed oppo- 
site each chair to save the red colour of the tiling, and 
a band of carpet ran from the entrance door to the 
door of the other room, also for the purpose of pre- 
serving the precious layer of red ochre so carefully 
waxed and wiped by Césarine. The latter recom- 
mended the two young women to waik along the car- 


pet, whereat Musidora smiled, for she was much more 


6 SI 


che obo bo aba aba ctnele boa ol foal toate cle of slo 


ore te ore 


FORTUNIO 


ie 
ib 
iP 
os 
it 
th 


desirous of not soiling her shoes than of not marking 
the tiling. 

The second room was a parlour hung with yellow, 
with furniture of old yellow Utrecht velvet. The 
worn and polished backs of the chairs testified to long 
and loyal service. China busts of Voltaire and Rous- 
seau, a pair of gilt brass candlesticks bearing tapers, 
and a clock with a group of Time killing Love, or 
Love killing ‘Time, I really do not know which, adorned 


the mantelpiece. 


An oil painting of Mr. V , and one of his wife, 
— fortunately dead, —in the full dress of 1810, made 
this room the finest in the apartment, and Césarine 
herself, overcome with so much magnificence, crossed 
it only with much internal respect, although for a long 
time she must have been familiarised with its splendour. 

The duenna begged the two ladies to be kind enough 
to wait a few minutes while she informed her master, 
who was shut up in his study, buried, according to his 
habit, in learned researches. 

He was standing before the mantelpiece in an atti- 
tude of the most intense contemplation. He held 
between his finger and thumb a small piece of toast, 


which he was crumbling up from time to time into a 


$2 


ors vie OO WTe ID WIS one oi vie 


FORTUNIO 


che cte oe abe oe oe ce ee ode coool obec cde ooo check oe shoo 


bow] of clear, sparkling water, where played three gold- 
fish. The bottom of the bowl was filled with fine 
sand and shells. A ray of light traversed this crystal- 
line globe, which the motions of the three fishes tinged 
with burning and changing rainbow-like tints. It was 
really a very beautiful sight, and a colourist would not 


have disdained to study the play of light and the bril- 


liant reflections; but Mr. V paid no attention to 
the alternate gold, silver, and purple with which the 
twisting and turning of the fishes coloured the diapha- 
nous prism in which they were enclosed. 

“ Césarine,’” said he, with the most serious and 
the most solemn look, “the big red fellow is too 
greedy and prevents the others feeding. He will have 


to be put in a separate bowl.” 


It was in this important occupation that Mr. V : 
professor of Chinese and Manchoo, spent regularly three 
hours a day, carefully shut up in his study as if he were 
commenting on the precepts of the wisdom of the cele- 
brated Confucius or the “Treatise on the Breeding of 
Silkworms.” 

“<It is not a case of goldfish and their quarrels,” said 
Césarine dryly. ‘ There are two ladies in the drawing- 


room who want to see you.” 


83 


ALAALAALLALLALAALEALAL LAL EAS 
PORT USN © 


“ Two ladies to see me, Césarine? ” cried the learned 
scholar, as he put one hand to his wig and the other to 
his breeches which, carelessly fastened, allowed the 
shirt to show between the belt and the waistcoat as 
through a Spanish slashing. ‘ ‘Two young and pretty 
ladies? Iam scarcely presentable. Ceésarine, get me 
my dressing-gown. I have no doubt they are duchesses 
who have read my treatise on Manchoo punctuation 
and have fallen in love with me.”’ 

He slipped, trembling with haste, his thin arms into 
the great sleeves of his dressing-gown, and went into 
the drawing-room. 

On seeing Arabella and Musidora, the old scholar at 
once pulled his wig down to his eyes and made three 
bows to them, trying to be as graceful as possible. 

Sir,’ said Musidora, “throughout France and 
Europe every one speaks of your amazing erudition.” 

“You are very good, madam,” said the professor, 
who blushed poppy-red with pleasure. 

“We are told,” continued Arabella, “that there is 
no one so well versed as you in the knowledge of Ori- 
ental tongues or who can so easily decipher mysterious 
hieroglyphs, acquaintance with which is confined to the 


most sagacious and erudite.” 


84 


LEEKE ALE AEAALAALAALALLALL ALLS 
FORDBUNTLO 


“<T may say without vanity that I know Chinese as 
well as any man in France. Have you read my treatise 
on Manchoo punctuation ? ” 

“No,” replied Arabella. 

““Have you, Miss?” said the scholar, turning 
towards Musidora. 

‘“¢T have glanced through it,”’ she said, with difficulty 
repressing a wish to laugh. “It is a very learned piece 
of work which does honour to the age which has 
produced it.” 

“So,” replied the scholar, puffed up with pride and 
showing off in his vanity, “ you share my opinion as to 
the position of the tonic accent? ”’ 

“¢ Completely,” replied Musidora; “but that is not 
what we have come about.” 

“‘’True,” said the scholar. ‘“ How can I serve you, 
ladies? I shall do anything in the world to be agree- 
able to such charming persons as you.” 

“ Well,” said Musidora, presenting to the scholar 
the pocket-book which she had under her mantle, “ if 
it is not trespassing too much on your kindness and 
your knowledge, we should like to have a translation 
of these two papers.” 


The scholar took the two papers which Musidora 


85 


beck oh deck de ohare cleoe ce check rade abe ede 
FORTUNIO 


held out, and said, with an air of great wisdom, 
“This is genuine Japan paper, and this genuine 
papyrus.” 

Then he placed upon his venerable nose a majestic 
pair of spectacles, but he could not make out a word. 
He took no end of trouble, yet failed to read the 
writing. 

‘‘T am really sorry, ladies,” he said, returning the 
pocket-book to Musidora. ‘That interlaced writing 
is absolutely undecipherable. All that I can tell you 
is that the characters are Chinese, and drawn by a very 
practised hand. You are aware that there are forty 
thousand signs in the Chinese alphabet, each of which 
corresponds to a word. Although I have worked all 
my life, I yet know the first twenty thousand only. It 
takes a native forty years to learn to read. No doubt 
the ideas contained in this letter are expressed in signs 
included in the last twenty thousand, which I have not 
yet learned. As for the other paper, it is Hindustani. 
Mr. C—— will translate that for you at sight.” 


Musidora and her companion withdrew very much 


was fruitless 
had 


never known any other language than the Basque 


86 


disappointed. ‘Their visit to Mr. C 


also, for the very good reason that Mr. C 


dbo bb tb bbbbdbbeb bob bbh bbb 


FORTUNIO 


dialect, which he taught to an artless German, the only 


pupil attending his course. 
Mry: 


screen and a couple of cups; on the other hand he 


had nothing Chinese about him but a 


spoke Low Breton fluently, and succeeded admirably in 
breeding goldfish. These two gentlemen were, for the 
matter of that, two very worthy people who had had 
the capital idea of inventing a language in order to 
teach it at the expense of the government. 

While driving through a square, Arabella saw Indian 
jugglers performing tricks upon a wretched piece of 
carpet. They were throwing brass balls into the air, 
swallowing sword blades thirty inches long, eating tow, 
and blowing flames out of their noses like the dragons 
of fable. 

“¢ Musidora,”’ said Arabella, “order your groom to 
call up one of these tanned rascals. Perhaps he knows 
more Hindustani than the professors in the Collége de 
France.” 

One of the jugglers, at the call of the groom, ap- 
‘ proached the carriage, turning on his hands and feet. 

‘“¢ Here, you fellow,” said Arabella, “I will give you 
a louis if you can read this paper, which is written in 


Hindustani.”’ 


Ie rire kt Rr ic Gautaneel 24 Hey NL 


FORTUNIO 


“Excuse me, madam, I come from Normandy. I 
am a Hindoo by profession, but I cannot read any 
language.” 

“Go to the devil!” said Musidora, throwing him 
five francs. 

The sham Hindoo thanked her, made a magnificent 
somersault and joined his painted companions, while 
the carriage drove towards the Boulevard. 

At the door of a bazaar, a young man with a golden 
yellow face, great eyes shining in his pale visage like 
monstrous black flowers, hooked nose, flat, bluish hair, 
—all the marks of the Asiatic race, in a word, — was 
seated in melancholy fashion behind a little table that 
bore two or three pounds of dates, half a dozen cocoa- 
nuts, and a pair of scales. It was impossible to see 
anything sadder, more evidently nostalgic, than that 
poor devil, who was all curled up in the pale sunshine. 
No doubt he was thinking of the green banks of the 
Hughli, of the great pagoda of Juggernauth, of the 
dances of the bayaderes in the baths and at the pal- 
ace gates. He was lost in a vague Oriental reverie 
full of golden scintillations, impregnated with strange 
perfumes and resonant with joyous sounds; for he 


started like a man suddenly awakened when Musidora’s 


88 


kberkeibereteeteeeeeetttttee 
HP OPRei WNT @) 


groom signed to him that the lady wished to speak 
to him. 

He came up with his little stock in trade hung 
around his neck, and putting both hands to his head, 
made a deep bow to the two young women. 

““Read me that,” said Musidora, holding out the 
papyrus to him. 

The fruit seller took the paper which had been held 
out to him, and read in strange and deep accents the 
writing that had puzzled the two scholars. Musidora 
trembled with curiosity. 

““Excuse me, madam,” said the merchant, wiping 
away a tear from his black eyes. “I am a rajah’s son. 
Misfortunes which it would take too long to relate 
have reduced me to the condition in which you see me. 
For six years now I have not heard or read a word of 
my own tongue. It is the first piece of happiness 
which I have had for many a day. ‘This papyrus con- 
tains a song in three stanzas; it is sung to a popular 
air in my country, and here is the meaning of the 


verses : — 


<< «The snow-white butterflies in flocks fly over the sea; 
lovely white butterflies, when shall I through the blue air take 


my way? 


89 


oe oe oe oboe oe he be che che cece cde cece cbse echoed oe cee 


wre OFo Fe oVe ete 


FORTUNIO 


«« «Know you, O fairest of the fair, my black-eyed bayadere? 
If their wings they had lent to me, tell me,—know you 
whither I would go? 

«©« Without taking a single kiss from the roses, through the 
valleys and the forests I would go to your half-closed lips, 


flower of my soul, and there I would lie.’ ”’ 


Musidora gave her purse to the date merchant, who 
kissed her hand with the most profound adoration. 

‘J shall return to my country. May Bramah watch 
over you and load you with blessings!” said the dis- 
possessed rajah. 

Musidora, after dropping Arabella at her lover’s, re- 
turned to her abode as wise as she had left it, — her 
brain excited by the most irritating curiosity, her heart 
upset by the beginning of real passion. She had no 
other means of finding whither Fortunio had gone. 
George, who seemed to know more about him than 
any one else, was as dumb as Harpocrates, the god of 
silence; and besides, he could not very well help 
Musidora to win her wager from him. 

Fortunio! Fortunio! Do you wear on your finger 
the ring of Gyges which enabled him to become 


invisible ? 


go 


LLP ELE ASSES etstetese 
I 


VITl 


THE next day a letter was brought to Musidora. It 
was sealed with a sort of Arabic talisman. Musidora 
did not recognise the writing, which was small, pecu- 
liar, and with complicated strokes and turns like for- 


eign writing. She broke the seal and read as follows: 


<< You graceful little Demon: 

«©The remarkable skill with which you snatched my 
pocket-book does the highest honour to your society talents. 
I am sorry, my dear angel, that there were not a few thousand- 
franc notes in it to compensate you for the trouble you must 
have had in opening it. Your curiosity cannot have been 
greatly satisfied, — but how the devil could I foresee that you 
would steal my pocket-book on that particular evening? I 
cannot anticipate everything. If I had, I should have filled it 
with love letters, confidential notes, extracts from registers, 
visiting cards, and other information. The only thing I beg 
you to be careful of is the golden needle. Its point has been 
dipped in the venomous juice of the euphorbia. The smallest 
prick with it kills with lightning-like rapidity. That needle 
is a weapon more terrible than a pistol or a poniard, for it 


never fails. 


«<P. S. Have the stones which adorn the cover taken off. 
They are of some value. ‘They are topazes that were given 


me by the Rajah of Serendib. They can be made into a 
gl 


LELKPESE AAA ASE ettteekese 
FORTUNIO 


bracelet which will not look badly on your beautiful arm. 


My jeweller in ordinary is the famous B 


I beg you 
will not pay for the setting. I kiss your hands and feet. 


«<< FortTunio.’’ 


IX 


Musipora is lying on her sota. A wrapper of pink 
silk gros-grain is carelessly drawn in around her waist. 
Through a refinement of coquetry her legs are bare, 
and she wears two enamelled gold anklets which have 
a quaint and charming effect. Her pose would suggest 
to a painter the subject of a lovely sketch. Her little 
head, with its wealth of hair, rests upon a pile of cush- 
ions, her dainty feet are stretched upon another pile of 
cushions almost as high as her head, so that her body 
describes a voluptuous curve wondrously supple and 
graceful. In her hand she holds Fortunio’s letter, 
which she has been contemplating for a quarter of an 
hour with the greatest attention, as if the form of the 
letters and the arrangement of the lines could reveal to 
her the secret which she seeks to penetrate. 

Musidora is experiencing a feeling entirely novel for 
her, —she has desired something and has not obtained 
it. It is the first time in her life that she has met with 


an obstacle. Her amazement is at its height. She, 


Q2 


yao ope wnt ote ese 


Cd CES O10 OF OFS OHS OPO sO UES VIO VIO OTS Wie VIO ete VTS Wie 


FOR UN} O 


oe of obs obs obs oll able ole obs ole obn cbrele obs aby ole obs obs oleate cle ofl obs eds 


Musidora, so envied, so courted, so sought after, the 
queen of her elegant and joyous world, has made for- 
mal advances without meeting with the least success. 
What an amazing revolution! For one moment the 
thought of Fortunio filled her with indescribable anger, 
extraordinary vehemence of hatred, and she was within 
the breadth of one of her own soft, silky hairs of 
becoming his mortal enemy. 

Fortunio’s remarkable beauty saved him, — Musi- 
dora’s anger could not stand against that marvellous 
perfection of form. The sweet, serene lines of the 
noble face stilled every evil feeling in the girl’s heart, 
and she took to loving him with unparalleled violence, 
the full extent of which she did not herself suspect. 
If curiosity had not stirred up this nascent love, as 
does a wind passing over a half-lighted fire, it might 
perhaps have died out with the last vapours of the 
orgy. Had it been crowned with success, satiety 
would soon have followed it. But obstacle and desire 
had made of the spark a conflagration. 

Musidora now had but one thought, —to meet 
Fortunio and make him love her. With this mingled 
the beginnings of jealousy. Whose was the tress of 


hair? Whose hand had given that flower preserved 


ve! 


check ae chee oh de oe he che a cee cece che oe oooh abe cheek 


ore ee oFe CTS 


FORTUNIO 


so long? For whom were written the verses trans- 
lated by the date-selling rajah ? 

“What am I worrying about?” said Musidora. 
‘¢ Fortunio has been back from India for three years.” 

Then a sudden thought flashed in her mind. She 
rang and Jacintha came in. : 

“‘ Jacintha, tear the stones out of that pocket-book 


, from the Marquis 


and take them to the jeweller B 
Fortunio. ‘Tell him to mount them as a bracelet and 
try to make him talk about the marquis. I shall give 
you the pearl-gray dress you have been coveting.” 

Jacintha returned looking rather put out. 

“Well?” said Musidora, sitting up. 

“The jeweller says that the Marquis Fortunio often 
comes to his shop and brings him stones to be set ; 
that he calls for them himself on the day named, and 
always pays cash; that he is an excellent lapidary and 
knows gems better even than he. He knows no more 
than that. — And shall I have the gray dress?” said 
Jacintha, rather troubled at the lack of success of her 
diplomacy. 

“Yes; don’t worry me, and leave me alone.” 

Jacintha withdrew. Musidora took to looking at 


her letter again. She enjoyed singular pleasure in 


94 


EECA AALS AE SAAS AAAS ALALE SSA 
FORTUNIO 


looking at the capricious signs traced by Fortunio’s 
hands. She seemed to recognise in the note written to 
warn her of danger, a loving anxiety disguised under a 
playful form, and a secret need to think of her which 
was yet but vaguely felt. Perhaps even the poisoned 
needle was but a pretext and no more. 

She dwelt for a few moments on this notion, which 
flattered her passion, but she soon perceived that her 
hope was illusory and that if Fortunio had felt the least 
desire for her there was not the smallest necessity for 
him to have recourse to such a subterfuge. She had 
too clearly betrayed her feelings for a man such as 
Fortunio to be mistaken in them. He had most care- 
fully avoided any engagement and did not appear very 
eager to enter upon any intrigue. But how was she 
to explain this coldness in a young man whose eye 
flashed with such brilliant, magnetic splendour, and 
who bore all the outward signs of the most fiery 
passions? ‘There must be in some corner of his heart 
an ideal, a poetic love soaring far above vulgar loves; 
all the strength of his soul must be absorbed by a 
unique and deep feeling which preserved his body from 
the seduction of the senses, since he had not been ex- 


cited by coquetries which would have made the ashes 


95 


bib h bbe bb bebcedecbe cb beh beheh chabah 
FORTUNIO 


of Nestor and Priam move in their tomb, and melted 
the ice of Hippolytus himself. 

“ Ah!” said Musidora with a sigh. ‘ He despises 
me. He looks upon me as impure, he-does not want 
me.” And Musidora cast over her past life a long, 
sombre glance. The golden beams which rayed her 
green eyes seemed to writhe like serpents, her velvety 
eyebrows were contracted, her nostrils swelled with a 
fierce emotion, and she bit her lower lip with her little 
teeth. 

“ How do I know what they have told him about 
me? That beast, that drunken George, who is only 
fit to empty full bottles, — no great talent, — will not 
have failed to say to him, with his unbearable chuckle : 
‘Ha, ha! he, he! Musidora, — oh, a delicious, an in- 
comparable girl, the pearl of supper parties, the cyno- 
sure of all feasts, the bouquet of all balls! She is very 
fashionable, on my word, and you will be right to take 
her. It is quite the proper thing to show her at the 
opera and at the races. For my part, I had her for 
three months. Any well-bred young fellow owes that 
to himself. Musidora is a power in her way, a great 
authority on all matters of elegance. If it occurred to 


her to-morrow to take for a lover a country lout with 


96 


she cbe ae bea ob oe oe ch be che cdecde de oleck dee cb chee ob obec 


FORTUNIO 


thread gloves and laced boots, to-morrow the laced 
boots of the country lout would be considered patent 
leather, and many people would order similar ones.’ | 
can hear him say it, and I am sure | have not misstated 
a word. Alfred, that other fool, always stuck in his 
cravat, his arms pinned in his sleeves, — what stupid 
jokes will he not have made about me, with his idiotic 
smile? And de Marcilly? And all of them? I wish 
I could trample them under foot and spit in their faces 
with contempt, for it is they who have made me what 
I am. 

“‘ Perhaps they have told Fortunio of my wager. If 
at least your dapple-gray horses had the sense to run 
away and break your neck, George! But it is quite 
useless for me to be angry with George. Fortunio 
does not need his indiscretions to guess what I am and 
to see my life ata glance. George is right, — I am a 
delightful, an incomparable girl ! ” 

‘¢ No,” said she, after a moment of silence, “I am 
an honest woman. I am in love.” 

She rose, kissed Fortunio’s letter, pressed it to her 


heart, and denied herself to everybody. 


LELLEALE EEE EEEL ELE eEE LES 
FORTUNIO 


THE menagerie of lions and tigers is beginning to worry 
about Musidora. No one knows what to think. She 
is not to be seen anywhere. Alfred, who is every- 
where at the same time and seems to have the gift of 
ubiquity, has not met her once in a fortnight. The 
dogs are off the scent, and, baying, they travel along 
the promenade with their noses to the ground, looking 
for her track. A concert, a ball, a first performance 
of a play have been given, and she has not appeared at 
any one of them. No one has caught a glimpse of 
her. Gone to the country? ‘That cannot be, for it is 
not yet the season. De Marcilly claims that she has 
some love affair in an attic with a commercial travel- 
ler; George maintains that she has had herself carried 
off by the Turkish ambassador; Alfred is satisfied 
with affirming that it is strange, very strange, exces- 
sively strange, —a stereotyped phrase which he calls 
to his help whenever he does not know what to 
think. 

The truth of the matter is that for a fortnight Musi- 
dora has been invisible. Her house looks uninhabited 


and dead; the blinds are carefully closed; no one is 


98 


check ee oe ee oe oe ae cdecelee ceobececledeoesfo abe 
FORTUNIO 


seen going in or coming out; scarcely does a valet 
with quiet, discreet face, step in on tip-toe through a 
door half-opened and immediately closed. At night 
the windows, usually so brilliant, no longer blaze with 
light from the chandeliers and tapers. A pale gleam 
of light, dimmed by thick curtains, quivers forlorn at 
the corner of a pane. It is the only sign of life visible 
on the black face of the dwelling. 

At last George, bored by the absence of his favour- 
ite, said to himself one evening, on leaving the Opera, 
‘¢] must absolutely find out what has become of Musi- 
dora. Iam willing to show at the Bois de Boulogne 
on a hired hack, to wear boots blacked with eggs, to 
do.the most humiliating things, if I do not succeed in 
forcing my way in.” 

Whereupon he proceeded to Musidora’s abode. 

A porter, who had received the most formal orders 
not to admit any one, endeavoured to prevent George 
passing. 

‘“¢ Look here, you rascal,” said George, striking him 
across the face with his rhinoceros-horn stick; ‘ do 
you take me for Baron de B——?” And he con- 
tinued on his way with a deliberate step. 


He reached without difficulty the first drawing-room, 


99 


LEELLELLE LE LLEAEALLAALAAL ELS 
FORTUNIO 


where he found Jacintha, whom forthwith he kissed ; 
then, turning the handle of a little door which he 
seemed to be well acquainted with, he entered Musi- 
dora’s room. He stopped for a few moments with- 
out speaking, and glanced around to see where she 
might be. 

The small Etruscan lamp alone was lighted, and 
cast a beam barely sufficient to enable objects to be 
seen. When his eyes had become accustomed to the 
weak light, he perceived Musidora stretched flat on the 
floor, her head leaning on her hand, her two breasts 
crushing the thick pile of the carpet, in an attitude 
exactly recalling that of Correggio’s Magdalen. Two 
locks of her uncurled hair fell to the ground and grace- 
fully set off the melancholy expression of her face. Her 
brow alone was lighted. If she had not been twisting an 
aloe-fibre shoe on the end of one of her feet cocked in 
the air, she might have been mistaken for a statue. 

“‘ Musidora,”’ said George, in a tone buffoonly pa- 
ternal, “ your conduct is amazing, scandalous, extraor- 
dinary! ‘The strangest and most ridiculous reports 
are current about you in society. You are compromis- 
ing yourself in horrible fashion, and if you do not take 


care, you will lose your character.” 


100 


FORTUNIO 


“© Ah! that is you, George, is it?”’ said Musidora, 
as if emerging from a dream. 

“© Yes, my infanta, it is I, your sincere and faithful 
friend, the sworn admirer of your charms, your cavalier, 
your troubadour, your Romeo.” 

“© George, you have managed to be more drunk even 
than usual. How did you do it?” 

‘sT! Musidora, I am funereally grave. Alas! 
wine no longer intoxicates me. But that is not the 
question. I am told, Musidora, though I dare scarcely 
repeat it, that you are seriously in love, — in love like a 
shop-girl ! ” 

“Indeed, is that what they say?” said Musidora, 
pushing back behind her ears the waves of hair which 
fell over her cheeks. 

“They also say that you have turned religious, and 
that you intend to be a modern Magdalen—JI don’t 
know, — endless absurd reports. But what is certain is 
that we do not know what to do since you took it into 
your head to remove your star from our heaven. 
Musidora, we miss you terribly. For my own part, I 
am bored like a patriarch, and the other day, for the 
sake of distraction, I was obliged to quarrel with Beppo, 


whom I unfortunately killed, so that I have no one 


IOI 


beteeetbeeettettetctcetketet 
FORTUNIO 


left as good as I am to play chess with me. You are 
also the cause of my having foundered my English 
mare at the steeple-chase at Biévre; for I thought I 
saw you in a carriage on the other side of a wall, which 
I made poor Belle leap, and cut her open on a piece 
of glass at the top. Alfred, who has finally left Cyn- 
thia to take his place among your admirers, has been 
reduced to such a state of brutishness by your disap- 
pearance that he actually went to the Tuileries with 
dirty gloves and the same stick as the night before. 
Such is the brief but touching account of the innu- 
merable calamities produced by your retreat. You are 
too beautiful, my dear, to cloister yourself in such 
fashion. Beauty, like the sun, is bound to shine for 
everybody. ‘There are so few beautiful women that 
the government ought to force every person convicted 
of being notoriously beautiful to show herself at least 
thrice a week on her balcony, so that people should 
not wholly lose feeling for form and elegance. It 
would be a great deal better than to scatter stereotyped 
Bibles in peasants’ huts, or to found schools after the 
Lancastrian method;— but I do not know -what the 
government is thinking of. Are you aware, queenlet, 


that since you are no longer there to harass us with the 


LO? 


LEELA LEEE PLES EEE EAS 
FORTUNIO 


barbed arrows of your jokes, we dress like poor devils 
who have received an unexpected inheritance, who have 
been invited in the morning to a ball the same night, and 
who have gone to buy ready-made clothing in some 
Palais-Royal shop? Cannot you see for yourself that 
my waistcoat is too broad by a finger-breadth, and that 
the right end of my cravat is much longer than the left, 
evident signs of great perturbation of mind?” 

‘¢T am profoundly touched by your deep grief,” said 
Musidora, with an arch smile; ‘indeed, I did not sup- 
pose that I was capable of causing so great a void on 
disappearing from the world. But I need solitude, the 
least noise afflicts me, everything worries and tires me.” 

“‘T understand,” said George. ‘ You would like to 
know if my new coat looks well from behind. I am 
importunate. If you were expecting somebody, I am 
quite sure it was not I. Never mind, | have risked 
being uncivil for once, and I shall not make use of the 
only means I have of being agreeable, — that is, going 
away.” And as he finished his remark, he sat down 
quietly on the floor by Musidora’s side. 

“Why, you have got a pretty bracelet!” he said, 
lifting her arm. 


“¢ Fie! ”? answered Musidora with a disdainful pout. 
P 


103 


BEALL EALALALALESLLALALLLS 
FORTUNIO 
“¢ Are you reduced to Tartuffe’s expedient, and do you 
need to speak of my bracelet in order to touch my 
arm ? ”’ 
‘They are topazes of admirable water and purity,” 


continued George. “It is B who set those. He 


is the only one that can do that kind of work. Who 
is the Amadis, the Prince Galaor, the charming con- 
queror who has given it to you? He must be very 
jealous to keep you shut up and walled in as the Turk- 
ish Sultan does with his favourite odalisque.” 


> 


“Tt is Fortunio,” replied Musidora. 

“Oh!” said George, ‘“ Fortunio! When am I to 
send you the carriage and horses? [am not surprised 
now at your disappearance. Well, you have turned 
your time to good account. You asked for six weeks, 
and it has taken you a fortnight only to penetrate a 
mystery which has baffled our sagacity for three years. 
That is very good! I shall give you a powdered 
coachman and two grooms into the bargain. I hope 
that you will now drive us in the carriage which you 
have so cleverly won, to the royal residence of that sly 
fox who has always thrown us off the scent.” 

“T have not seen Fortunio since the night of the 


’ 


supper,” replied Musidora with a sigh, “and I know 


104 


che obo dace cde ob beable ob abe obo be fe fof 


wre vte ore Sie we UY we 


ORTUNIO 


no more than you do, George, whither his caprice has 
taken him, —I do not even know whether he is in 
France. ‘These stones came from the pocket-book 
which | took from him, as you know. ‘They adorned 
the covers. Inside I found only a Chinese letter and 
a Malay song. Fortunio, finding that I had taken his | 
pocket-book, wrote me a mocking letter in which he 
asked me to have a bracelet made of the topazes ; — 
and that is all. Since then I have had no news of him. 
Perhaps he has gone to join the Chinese princess.” 

“ That he has not done, little one, for I have twice 
caught sight of him at the Bois de Boulogne: the first 
time in the Madrid Drive, the other, at the Maillot 
Gate. He was riding a devil of a black horse with a 
long tail and a long mane, of the fiercest look, and was 
going like acannon ball. I had not yet killed Belle, 
and you know at what a pace she could go, but by 
the side of Fortunio’s hippogriff, she was, — for all 
that concerns the poor brute must now be put in the 
past tense,—a snail crawling over a stone covered 
with crushed sugar. Behind Fortunio galloped a little 
monster with a brown face, eyes bigger than his head, 
thick lips and flat hair, and dressed in the most eccen- 


tric fashion in the world, — a nightmare riding a whirl- 


105 


bhtbbtttttttttbt tt tt dtdst 
FORTUNIO 


wind, for the whirlwind alone can go at such a pace. 
That is all I can tell you about Fortunio. Of course, 
as you say, he may be in China.” 

In all George’s talk, Musidora had heard but one 
thing, — that Fortunio might be met in the Bois de 
Boulogne. A flash of hope lighted her green eyes, and 
she addressed George in more friendly fashion. 

‘“¢T will give you another month,” said George, kiss- 
ing her hand. ‘‘ Under other. circumstances, I should 
have thrust myself on your hospitality; but we are now 
a girl of principles. Farewell, my infanta, my princess; 
dream rose-coloured and mother-of-pearl dreams. If 
I can come across my Lord Fortunio, although it may 
cost me four horses, I shall send him to you.” 

With which fine peroration, George went out, not 


without kissing Jacintha, as he had done on entering. 


XI 


Musrpora awoke more joyous than usual. She had 
her mirror brought, and thought herself pretty, — 
somewhat pale, her eyes a little heavy, just enough to 
make her beauty delicately interesting. She said to 
herself, ‘If Fortunio could see me thus, I should be 


quite sure of victory.” 


106 


Stbetetttetteteettttttttee 
POR UN L® 


Indeed, she was irresistible. But how are you going 
to overcome an enemy that flees and refuses to fight ? 

The weather was rather fine for the season. A few 
bits of blue showed among the clouds, the wind had 
dried the roads. Musidora, usually very indifferent to 
the changes of the weather, and who had not many 
opportunities of ascertaining whether it was rainy or 
fine, felt extreme joy at the beauty of the day. She 
ran through the house with extraordinary vivacity, 
looking at all the clocks to see what was the time, and 
at all the vanes to see which way the wind was. 

Jacintha, her faithful maid, helped her to put on an 
elegant sky-blue riding habit, a beaver hat with a green 
veil; a riding whip from Verdier’s and a neatly turned 
boot, — nothing was wanting. Musidora in that cos- 
tume had a charmingly resolute and victorious air. 
Her curls, held in by a light net to resist the action of the 
wind, fell gracefully down her cheeks; her figure, set 
off by the close-fitting waist of her habit, showed sup- 
ple and slight above the ample, rich folds of the skirt ; 
her foot, naturally so tiny, became imperceptible, im- 
prisoned as it was in the small boot. 

Jack announced that her ladyship’s mare was saddled 


and bridled, whereupon Musidora went down to the 


107 


oh che oh fe abe oe che oho oe cbs oben cde che oe ob ake de che oe oe ee 
FORTUNIO 


yard, and, Jack holding her stirrup, she sprang into the 
saddle with consummate lightness and skill. Then she 
touched her animal with the whip and went off like a 
flash. Jack galloped behind her and had the greatest 
difficulty in keeping up with her. 

The long avenue of the Champs-Elysées was soon 
traversed. Musidora’s mare had not been exercised for 
some time, and dashed forward impatiently. Although 
she was going at full speed, her mistress gave her her 
head and whipped her up. Musidora evidently had a 
presentiment that she would meet Fortunio that day. 
The mare, thus urged, galloped even faster, and seemed 
no longer to touch the ground. ‘The passers-by were 
amazed at the boldness of the young woman. Some- 
times a cry of terror broke from a carriage in which a 
frightened duchess threw herself back as she turned her 
head not to see the imprudent rider fall and be dashed 
to pieces; but Musidora was an excellent horsewoman, 
and sat her mare asif she were made fast to the 
saddle. 

At the Maillot Gate she met Alfred, who was re- 
turning towards Paris. Alfred, surprised, attempted to 
swing his horse around and to gallop after her in order 


to declare his love and beg for relief to his sorrows, but 


108 


be of of aie chs! whe. ote abe abe obs be cleo che obs ols ofr of ore obs che che ofp ole 


FORTUNIO 


he did not perform the movement very skilfully, lost a 
stirrup, and before he had regained his seat, Musidora 
was out of sight. 

““The devil take it!” said he, bringing his horse to 
a walk, “there is a great chance lost. I shall wait for 
her at this gate, for it is probable that she will come 
out this way.” 

And, for fear of missing her, Alfred stood sentry at 
the Maillot Gate as motionless as a carbineer on sentry 
before the Triumphal Arch of the Carrousel. 

The Bois de Boulogne was still leafless; scarcely 
a few blades of green grass showed on the detritus 
of the last season’s leaves; the red stems, sticky 
with sap, opened like the frames of umbrellas or 
fans from which the silk had been torn. Although 
there was no sun, the roads were already as dusty as 
after a hot summer. The Bois de Boulogne was as 
ugly as a fashionable wood can be, which is saying 
not a little. 

Musidora, not much inclined by nature to pastoral 
woods, cared very little for the beauty of the prospect. 
That was not what had brought her to the Bois. She 
traversed every drive, particularly the Madrid Drive 


where George had met Fortunio, but in vain. 


10g 


BLADE ALE ALAA ALALE SALAS ESS 
FORTUNIO 


“© What is the matter with Musidora?” said a young 
fellow who saw her passing by at full speed like a 
shadow carried away by the wind. ‘She is riding 
madly and leaping the barriers at the risk of breaking 
her neck. Is she trying to become a circus rider or a 
jockey ? What mania has suddenly seized upon her? ” 

Once Musidora thought she saw Fortunio at the 
corner of a road. She dashed off in pursuit of him 
with renewed whipping and spurring. Her mare, mad- 
dened, reared, lashed out twice or thrice, and went off at 
score. ‘Ihe veins stood out upon her smoking, muscu- 
lar neck, her flanks were heaving, foam flecked her 
bridle, and her speed was so great that her mane and 
tail stood out straight. 

“© Musidora! ”’? cried George, who was riding in the 
opposite direction, ‘you will break your mare’s wind.” 

The girl paid no attention, but continued her mad 
gallop. She was wonderfully beautiful. The speed at 
which she went had brought the roses to her cheeks, 
her eyes flashed, her fair, loosened hair flew behind, her 
heaving breast rose and fell, she breathed in strongly 
through her nostrils, holding her lips tightly closed so 
as not to be suffocated by the wind, her veil unrolled 


along her back in waving folds that gave her a trans- 


Ilo 


BORD UN IO 


parent and ethereal aspect. Bradamante or Marphisa, 
the two lovely warriors, never looked prouder and more 
resolute on horseback. 

Alas! it was not Fortunio; it was a very good- 
looking young fellow, who was much surprised to see 
a young woman dash at him at full speed and suddenly 
turn round without a word. Musidora, exceedingly 
disappointed, again met George, who was riding quietly 
along like a village priest mounted upon an ass. 

“ George,” she said, “take me home. I have lost 
my groom.” 

George rode by her side, and they went out together 
by the Auteuil Gate. 

“Why!” said de Marcilly, “it looks as if dear 
George had taken on Musidora again.” 

“J think they never quite broke off,” answered his 
comrade. | 

‘¢T must tell that to the Duchess of M »” said de 
Marcilly, ‘she will lead George a fine life. What 


amazing stuff he will have to talk in order to get back 


|!» 


into her good books And the two rode down an- 
other drive. 
As for Alfred, whose nose, irritated by a sharp wind, 


was visibly getting redder, when he saw the mist rise 


ng 


ALELLALALALALALALLALLLLLAL ELS 
FORTUNIO 


on the horizon and the night coming on apace, he 
made a very judicious remark which ought to have 
occurred to him two hours earlier: “ Why! it looks 
as if Musidora had gone out by another gate. ‘hat 
girl is really too capricious. I shall make up my mind 
to pay court to Phoebe; she has a very much better 
disposition.” 

Whereupon he sates his horse, and got comfort- 
ably drunk that evening at the Café de Paris by way 


of consoling himself for his disappointment. 


XII 


THE lovely girl returned home, worn out, almost dis- 
couraged, and sadder than a professional gambler who 
has been refused twenty francs by his intimate friend 
in order to go back to the card-room. She threw 
herself on a sofa, and while Jacintha was unlacing her 
boots and undoing her dress, she began to weep bitterly, 
shedding the first tears which had ever moistened her 
sparkling eye, with its clear, cold glance, sharp and 
cutting like a dagger, When her mother died, she 
had not wept. It is true that her mother had sold her 


at the age of thirteen to an old English nobleman, and 


I1I2 


that she beat her to get her money out of her; these 
facts had somewhat tempered in Musidora the impulses 
of filial love. She had seen carried away upon a 
stretcher the blood-stained body of young Willis, who 
had blown out his brains in despair at being unable to 
satisfy her extravagant wants, and she had not ex- 
hibited a trace of emotion. But she wept at not hav- 
ing met Fortunio. Her icy heart, colder and more 
barren than a Siberian winter, was at last melting 
under the warm breath of love and dissolving in a 
sweet shower of tears. [hese tears were her baptism 
into a new life. 

There are diamond-like natures coldly brilliant and 
unnaturally hard. Nothing affects them; no fire can 
melt, no acid dissolve them; nothing can grind them 
down; they tear with their sharp corners the weak 
and loving souls they meet on their way. ‘The world 
charges them with being barbarous and cruel, but they 
merely obey a fatal law which requires that of two 
bodies which come in contact, the harder shall wear 
and cut the other. Why should a diamond cut dia- 
mond, and glass not cut diamond? ‘There is the 
whole question in a nutshell. Is it fair to accuse the 


diamond of being insensible ? 


8 113 


LLELEALEALLELLALL LALLA L ELS 
FORTUNIO 


Musidora’s nature was of that kind. She had lived 
indifferent and calm amidst disorder; she had plunged 
into shame like a diver in his bell, who sees turning 
round him the monstrous polyps and the hungry sharks 
that cannot reach him; her real existence was entirely 
separate from the one that went on outside it. Often 
it seemed to her that another woman who, by a curious 
accident, happened to have her name and figure, had 
done everything that she was charged with. 

But let there turn up a soul of equal strength and 
power of resistance, and suddenly the angles are cut 
away, facets are formed, a monogram is engraved 
ineffaceably : diamond alone can cut diamond.  For- 
tunio had succeeded in raying the hard armour of 
Musidora and in drawing his own image upon the 
metal which had resisted agua fortis and the graver. 
The statue had become a woman. So in the fabulous 
days of antiquity, a young goatherd, endowed by 
Venus with resistless beauty, caused to spring from 
the hard and knotty heart of an oak a nymph smiling 
in all the splendour of her fair nudity. 

Musidora feels a new soul blooming in her like 
a mysterious flower sown by Fortunio on the barren 


rock of her heart. Her love is full of the divine puer- 


114 


oe oe oe be oe be oh oe abe detect cte tec obec edocs oe ces 


WFO HO WTO CTO TO Om He ute ote ae 


FORTUNIO 


ilities, of all the adorable childishness of pure, virgin 
passion. Musidora is, in truth, an innocent girl, who 
would blush at a word and tremble under a too burn- 
ing glance. It is quite sincerely that she wears on her 
dear little heart the letter of the beloved Fortunio, that 
she goes to bed with it and kisses it twenty times a day. 
You may be quite sure that if the daisies were in 
bloom, she would pick the petals of one, saying, ‘“ He 
loves me a little, very much, not at all,” like the artless 
Marguerite in Martha’s garden. 

Who has dared to say that there was in the 
world a certain Musidora, haughty, proud, capricious, 
depraved, venomous as a scorpion, and so wicked 
that people glanced under her dress to see if she did 
not have a cloven foot; a soulless, pitiless, remorse- 
less Musidora, who deceived even her chosen lover; a 
vampire thirsting for gold and silver, drinking up the 
inheritance of eldest sons like a glass of soda water by 
way of appetiser; a mocking fiend, laughing discord- 
antly at everything; a vile courtesan renewing the 
orgies of antiquity, without even having for excuse the 
ardours of Messalina? 

Those who say these things are unquestionably in 


error. I do not know that Musidora, and I doubt 


115 


whether she ever existed. Besides, I would not have 
taken so abominable a creature for my heroine. Scan- 
dal must not be believed. Men are so wicked that 
they manage to slander Tiberius and Nero. 

The Musidora I know is softer and whiter than 
milk, a month-old lamb is not more candid; the scent 
of the early strawberries is less suave and spring-like 
than the perfume of her newly opened soul. In her 
young dreams she wanders innocently upon tender green 
meads by flowery hawthorn hedges; her sole desire is to 
inhabit a humble cabin by the bank of alimpid stream 
and to live in eternal solitude with her beloved. What 
girl of fifteen who has never been away from her 
mother’s protection, could wish for chaster and simpler 
happiness? Nothing but her heart, without any accom- 
paniment of Emir-green Thibet shawls, of sorrel 
horses, gems from Provost’s, and a box at the Bouffes. 
O sancta simplicitas!' as John Huss said on ascending 
the pile. 

Yet this dream, so commonplace and apparently so 
easy of realisation, does not strike me as likely to 
come true very soon. Shall we have the luck to meet 
Fortunio at the Bois de Boulogne? It is doubtful, 


yet I have no other means of continuing my novel. 


116 


chee ae oe oe oe fe oe che fe a ctecde abe le ee ob ede efecto ole abe eae 
FOR UN TO 


The Italian birds have fled from their gilded cage, so 
I must give up thinking of bringing Fortunio and 
Musidora together at a performance of “ Anna Bo- 
lena”? or “Don Giovanni.” Fortunio does not go 
often to the Opera, and I do not want to upset my 
dear hero’s habits. Meanwhile I keep supplied with 
Havana cigars a young fellow who is a friend of 
mine and who is mounting guard on the. Boulevard 
de Gand watching for Fortunio, who sometimes walks 
there with his friend de Marcilly. 

I had thought of making Musidora go back to the 
Madrid Drive and making her catch sight of Fortunio 
galloping at full speed. She would have rushed in 
pursuit of him, and her mare, shying at a branch, 
would have thrown her violently to the ground. For- 
tunio would have picked her up in a faint and taken 
her home, and could not in decency have helped com- 
ing to inquire after the invalid. “hen would have come 
Musidora’s confession, the emotion of the shy For- 
tunio, and the inevitable consequences. But this plan 
is worn out. In every novel you see nothing but 
women pursued by mad bulls, carriages stopped on the 
brink of a precipice, horses rearing and a stranger 


seizing their bridle, and no end of other fine inven- 


Yr7 


LELALAAALALLALALALLLLLLAL ALE 
FORTUNIO 


tions of the kind. Besides, when you are thrown from 
your horse, it is quite natural that you should break your 
shoulder bone, punch a hole in your head, smash your 
teeth or your nose; and I confess that I have taken 
too much pains to make Musidora a very pretty crea- 
ture to run any risk of thus damaging her fine polished 
shoulders, her delicately shaped nose, her clean, well 
set teeth as white as those of a Newfoundland dog, in 
favour of which I have used up all that I possess in 
the way of crystalline comparisons. Do you think it 
would be pleasant to see that silky, fair hair turned into 
stiff, straight wisps full of coagulated blood? Perhaps 
it would be necessary to cut it off in order to dress the 
wound; I could not bear such a monstrosity as my 
heroine with her head shaved. It would be quite 
impossible for me to continue a story in which the 
heroine’s head should be dressed Titus fashion; and I 
ask you, ladies, if anything could be more hateful than 
a princess in a novel who should look like a little boy. 

It is a pretty hard task which I have undertaken. 
How the devil should I know what Fortunio is doing? 
There is no reason why I should know it any better 
than you. I have seen Fortunio but once, at supper, 


and the unfortunate idea came into my head to take 


118 


LEELA LE LES b hhh bbb 
FORTUNIO 


him for my hero, believing that such a good-looking 
young fellow could not fail to have many romantic 
adventures. [he ready welcome he received at every 
one’s hands, the mysterious interest attached to his 
person, certain strange words which he had let fall be- 
tween a smile and a toast had singularly predisposed 
me in his favour. Fortunio, you have deceived me! 
I expected merely to have to write at your dictation a 
marvellous story full of surprising incidents. On the 
contrary, I have got to invent everything, to rack my 
brains, to make my readers have patience until you are 
ready to present yourself and bow to the company. I 
have made you handsome, witty, generous, a million- 
aire, mysterious, noble, well-shod, with handsome neck- 
ties, — all rare and precious gifts. If you had had a 
fairy godmother, you could not have been better off. 
And how many pages have you given me in return, 
you ungrateful Fortunio? Not more than a dozen. 
O Hyrcanian ferocity! O unparalleled callousness ! 
A dozen pages in return for twenty-four perfections ! 
It is scant. 

In order to fill up the space which you should have 
filled up alone, poor Musidora has had to mourn be- 


yond measure, George to get as drunk as innumerable 


11g 


bhbbbtbettttttbdtttdbd dds 
WORT ONTO 


lords, Alfred to utter a greater number of stupidities 
than usual, Cynthia to show her back and breasts, 
Phoebe her legs, and Arabella her dress. If I have 
been improper in introducing my reader into Musi- 
dora’s bathroom, because [ did not know where else to 
take him, you alone are the cause of it. You have 
compelled me to spin out my description and to go 
counter to Horace’s precept, semper ad eventum festina. 
If my novel is poor, it is your fault. May it weigh 
lightly upon you! I have spelled the words as well as 
I could, and hunted out in the dictionary those I was 
not sure of. You who were my hero, you ought to 
have furnished me with incredible events, Platonic and 
other passions, duels, elopements, dagger-thrusts. It 
was in return for this that I provided you with all pos- 
sible qualities. If you go on in this way, my dear 
Fortunio, I shall have to say that you are ugly, a fool, 
commonplace, without a sou to your name. I cannot 
go and look for you at the street corners like a be- 
trayed woman who waits in the pouring rain to see 
her faithless lover come forth from his new mistress’s 
house, and catch hold of him by the tail of his coat. 
If you had a janitor, I could go and ask your story of 


him, but you have not one, since you have not a 


120 


che be obs abe be ae ob abe be abe abet tee abe abe obec abe ohne 
FORTUNIO 


house, and consequently have not a door. O Cal- 
liope, Muse of the brazen trump, sustain my breath ! 
What the devil am I to say in the next chapter? I 
have nothing left to do but to put Musidora to death. 
Do you see, Fortunio, to what extremities you have 
reduced me? I created a pretty woman to be your 
mistress, and I am compelled to kill her at page 127 
contrary to custom, which does not permit the bubble 
swollen with love sighs and called heroine of a novel, 


to be pricked until page 216 or thereabouts. 


XITI 


THE days passed, and Fortunio did not show up. 
Musidora’s quest had been utterly fruitless. Arabella’s 
* remark, “ Fortunio is not a man, he is a dream,” re- 
curred to her memory. And indeed, once seen, he 
was so handsome that it was easy to believe him a 
supernatural vision. The noisy brilliancy in the midst 
of which he had appeared to Musidora greatly helped 
out this poetic illusion, and sometimes she doubted its 
reality ; as some one might who had seen heaven open 
for a moment and afterwards, finding it inexorably 
closed, had come to believe himself the dupe of a hallu- 


cination due to fever. 


1 RAAA | 


i> 
i} 
it 
it 
i 
it 


ale obs ole oll als abncte cle obs abr obs oll ell ole ole ole oll of 


ene CF ee aye aye ere oie we eve 


FORT UNIO 


Her familiar friends brought her perfidious consola- 
tion, with airs of ironical condolence and faces that 
were joyously sad. Cynthia advised her, with all the 
generous sincerity of her kindly heart, to take another 
lover, because that would always occupy her a little; 
but Musidora replied that this remedy, which might do 
for Phoebe or Arabella, was in no wise suited to her. 
Then Cynthia kissed her tenderly on the forehead, and 
withdrew, saying, ‘ Povera innamorata! I shall have 
a novena said to the Madonna for the success of 
your love.” 

And this she did religiously. 

Musidora, seeing that every gleam of hope had died 
out and that Fortunio was more lost than ever, became 
thoroughly disgusted with life and turned over in her * 
lovely head the most sinister projects. Like a cour- 
ageous girl, she resolved not to survive her first love. 

“¢ At least,” she said to herself, ‘“‘since I have seen 
the man I was to love, I will not be low enough to 
permit any other to touch my dress with the tip 
of his finger. I am now consecrated. Ah! if I 
could only take back and suppress my life! If I 
could only strike out from the number of my days 


all that have not been devoted to you, dear and mys- 


I22 


che obs obs obs ols abs alle obe obs all obs cbrcls oy ob ols ole obs ob obs abe obs cba ofs 


ame eTe ove oe CFO WTO oT Ute OTe 


ROREU Nil O 


terious Fortunio! I had a vague presentiment that 
you existed somewhere, sweet and proud, witty and 
beautiful, a lightning gleam in your calm eyes, an 
indulgent smile on your divine lips, like an angel come 
down to live among men. Once I saw you, my whole 
heart went out to you; witha single glance you seized 
upon my soul; I felt that I belonged to you, and [ 
recognised in you my master and my conqueror. { 
understood that it would be impossible for me ever 
to love any one else than you, and that the centre of 
my life was forever displaced. I am punished for not 
waiting for you, but now I know that you exist. 
You are no phantom ; you are not merely a charming 
image evoked in my heated brain by my hot heart. 
I have heard you, seen you, touched you; I have done 
my best to find you, to cast myself at your feet, to 
beseech you to forgive me and to love me a little. 
You have escaped from me like an evanescent shadow, 
— all that is left me is to die. To know that you are 
not a dream and to go on living is impossible.” 
Musidora turned over in her mind ever so many 
ways of committing suicide. First she thought of 
drowning herself, but the Seine was very yellow and 


muddy ; then the thought of being fished out of the 


123 


HOK TiUaNEo 


Saint-Cloud nets and stretched naked upon the black, 
sticky slabs of the Morgue proved singularly repug- 
nant to her. For a moment she thought of blowing 
out her brains, but she had not a pistol, and besides, 
no woman cares to disfigure herself, even after death. 
She has a certain funereal vanity ; she wants to bea 
presentable corpse. 

She rather fancied a knife-thrust in the heart, but 
she was afraid of recoiling at the touch of steel and 
of not striking firmly enough. She wished to kill 
herself in real earnest and not merely to make an in- 
teresting wound. 

Finally she settled on poison. I may assure my 
readers that the commonplace and inelegant idea of 
asphyxiating herself with a brazier of lighted charcoal 
did not occur to my heroine. She knew too well how 
to live, to go and die in that fashion. Suddenly a 
thought flashed into her brain; she recalled Fortunio’s 
needle. 

“‘] shall prick my breast with the needle, and that 
will be the end of it. Death will be sweet since it 
will come from Fortunio,” said she, as she drew the 
needle from one of the divisions of the pocket-book. 


She carefully looked at the sharp point, dulled by a 


124 


chee a abe obs th obo che ch che eee che cbc chobeh bot 
FORE UN TO 


sort of reddish coating, and placed it upon a table 
by her side. “Then she put on a wrapper of white 
muslin, fastened a white rose in her hair, and stretched 
herself out on the sofa, after having first drawn aside 
the folds of her dress and brought out her round, 
white breast, in order to prick it more readily. She 
was certainly resolved to kill herself, but I am bound to 
confess that she did not hurry the preparations. Some 
vague and secret hope still kept her back. 


>> 


“J shall prick myself at sharp noon,” she said to 
herself. | 

It was then a quarter to twelve. Whatever may he 
the explanation of the strange caprice, it is certain that 
Musidora would have been very sorry to die at a 
quarter to twelve. 

While Time dropped in his hourglass the sands of 
the fatal quarter of an hour, a thought occurred to 
Musidora: Did that poison cause much suffering be- 
fore death? Did it leave on the body red or black 
spots? She would have liked to see its effects. 
In the days of Cleopatra, in the days of antiquity, 
there would have been no difficulty about the matter. 
She would have sent for five or six male or female 


slaves and tried the poison on them; she would have 


125 


chee fe che oe he te eo abe ote ctocde che cdc choca ofr cole abe cece 
FORT UANP © 


Benard what the doctors call an experiment in anima 
vili. A dozen poor wretches would have writhed like 
eels cut to pieces on the handsome porphyry pavement 
and the brilliant mosaics, while their mistress, leaning 
carelessly upon the shoulder of a young Asiatic child, 
watched with her velvet glance their last agonising 
spasm. Everything has degenerated nowadays, and 
the prodigious life of that gigantic world is no longer 
understood by us. Our virtues and our crimes are 
shapeless. 

Having no slaves on whom she could try her needle, 
Musidora, very much perplexed, held it in her fingers 
three inches from her breast, envying Cleopatra’s fate, 
who at least had seen, before she yielded her life to 
the venomous kiss of the asp, what she would have 
to suffer to join her dear Anthony. 

Just as Musidora was plunged in this maze of un- 
certainty, her English cat emerged from below a piece 
of furniture and came to her with soft purring. Seeing 
that her mistress did not pay any attention to her 
advances, she sprang into her lap and moved her hand 
with her little, cold, pink nose. She arched her back 
as she looked at her mistress with round eyes cut by a 


pupil in the shape of a capital I, and expressed her 


126 


bbb bbb bh bbb bbb bt 
¥ 5 RTUNIO 


pleasure at being caressed by the soft purring peculiar 
to cats and to tigers. 

A devilish idea occurred to Musidora, as she petted 
the cat. She pricked its head with the needle. ‘The 
cat leaped up, sprang to the floor, made two or three 
attempts to walk, then fell as if seized with vertigo; 
its sides heaved, its tail faintly beat the floor, a shudder 
ran through its body; its eyes filled with a greenish 
gleam and then died out. It was dead. The whole 
thing had lasted scarcely a few seconds. 

‘That is good,” said Musidora; “evidently one does 
not suffer much; ” and she put the needle to her breast. 

She was just about to scratch her white skin with it, 
when the low rumble of a carriage passing at full 
gallop under the gateway reached her ear, and fora 
moment delayed the carrying out of her project. She 
rose and looked out of the window. 

A carriage, to which were harnessed four dapple- 
gray horses so absolutely alike and so thorough-bred 
that they would have been taken for Arab horses of 
the Prophet’s breed, was just then passing round the 
sanded court. ‘The postilions wore pale-green jackets 
with Musidora’s colours. ‘There was no one in the 


carriage. 


127 


whe be obs ob ols oe oh ae che abe cb cb cde cto te che che cb che chee oh beds 
EO R FUNG oO 


Musidora did not know what to make of it, when 
Jacintha handed her a note which had been given her 


by one of the postilions. Its contents were as follows: 


“‘ Madam: 

‘© My shy ways have made you lose a carriage, which is 
not right. ‘This one is better than George’s. Pray accept it 
in exchange. If you should desire to try it, the Neuilly Road 
is a very fine one, and you could try your horses’ speed. I 
should be happy to meet you there. 

<¢ Fortunio.”’ 


XIV 


IT is easy to imagine the delighted amazement of Mu- 
sidora. She passed suddenly and without any transition 
from the deepest depression to the liveliest joy. For- 
tunio, who had fled, who .was not to be found, who 
was so shy, surrendered of his own accord at the very 
moment when she least expected it. The triumphal 
clarions sounded already joyously in Musidora’s ear, 
for she no longer doubted that she was victorious, and 
felt sure that she would storm Fortunio’s heart with- 
out striking a blow. O ever up-springing hope, how 
obstinately you raise your elastic and supple branches 
bent under the heavy tread of disappointment, and how 


little time do you need to bloom into graceful flowers 


128 


SELEL ADA EE PSASeS Lett ttt 
FORTUNIO 


and to send out vigorous branches in every direction! 
Here is a girl who but a moment since was paler than 
the alabaster statue that would have been placed upon 
her tomb and whose blue veins seemed to mark marble 
rather than living flesh, and she now skips through the 
room singing as joyously as a sparrow in the month of 
May. 

“ Jacintha, Jacintha! Quick! Dress me, put on 
my shoes, —I am going out.” 

‘What dress will you wear, madam?” replied Ja- 
cintha, weighing each word to give her time to reflect. 

“© Any one,” said the girl, with a charmingly impa- 
tient gesture, “and please be quick. You are slower 
than a tortoise. One would think you carried a shell 
on your back.” 

Jacintha brought a white dress with narrow, very 
pale rose stripes which gave it a delicate flesh tint, 
something like that of the hortensia bursting into bloom. 
Musidora put it on without a corset, so eager was she 
to go. Besides, she ran no risk in doing so, for she 
was one of the very few women who do not fall to 
pieces when they are undressed. “Then she wrapped 
herself in a great white cashmere which came down to 


her heels, and Jacintha placed delicately on her head 


9 | 129 


ShbhbhbhbLtbttthhE terest tes 
FORTUNIO 


the freshest, most graceful, most delightfully coquettish 
bonnet imaginable. I dare not describe in vile prose 
such a masterpiece. Be satisfied, ladies, with knowing 
that the brim, which was not very broad, was lined 
with an airy garland of little wild-flowers which formed 
around Musidora’s lovely face a charming aureole for 
which more than one saint would willingly have ex- 
changed her golden nimbus. Imagine a great camellia 
with an angel’s face for a heart! Her small shoes, 
like the wing of a scarabazeus, so cut away that they 
scarcely covered the toes, showed under the hem of 
her dress and readily suggested that they covered feet 
belonging to the prettiest legs in the world. Exces- 
sively fine stockings showed through their open-worked 
embroidery the rose-flushed skin of the adorable feet. 

Musidora scarcely took time to put on her gloves, 
went downstairs and got into the carriage. 

“To Neuilly!”’ she said to the groom who put up 
the steps. The carriage went off like a flash. 

“Why!” said Jacintha, stumbling against the body 
of the cat, which she had not yet perceived, “ Blan- 
chette is dead! Here, Jack, look at your brute. It is 
dead. Your mistress will make a fine row about it to- 


night when she comes home.” 


130 


ALELALALEALLAEEAALLLALLEL ELS 
FORTUNIO 


Jack, terrified, knelt down by the cat, pulled its tail, 
pinched its ears, rubbed its nose with a handkerchief 
dipped in cologne, but alas! all in vain. 

“© Oh, the wicked brute! it died on purpose to have 


> 


me beaten by my mistress,” said the negro boy, rolling 
his eyes with an air of comical terror; “and her hand 
is so heavy!” 

‘‘ Hold your tongue, you fool! Do you suppose 
that Madam would lower herself to beat you? She 


’ 


will have you whipped by Zamora,” replied Jacintha, 
majestically. ‘And to tell the truth, you thoroughly 
deserve it. You have only a cat to look after, and 
you let it die like a dog, — poor little thing ! ” 

“Oh, oh!” cried the little negro, as if he already 
felt upon his shoulders the shower of blows which was 
reserved for him. 

“You can howl by and by,” said Jacintha, who 
took pleasure in increasing the negro’s terror; ‘ you 
know that Zamora detests you, and he has a strong 
arm. He will flay you alive like an eel; you can 
reckon on that, Master Jack.” 

Jack picked up the cat, carried it to its cradle, bent 
its four paws under it, arranged its tail in a circle, 


opened its eyes so as to give it an appearance of life, 


131 


che he be che che che be che hee heel tech cb tele eho ch bet 
FORTUNIO 


then hid himself in a hay-loft behind a pile of hay 
until the storm should have passed, taking care to 
put in his pockets a bottle of wine, bread, and a piece 
of cold meat. 

Since I am talking about the cat, let me clear Musi- 
dora of the charge of cruelty which may be brought 
against her for having killed her favourite pet. Musi- 
dora thought that she was going to die herself, and that 
perhaps the cat, after her death, would be reduced to 
travelling on the roofs in snow and rain, exposed to 
the horrors of famine; a most afflicting prospect. She 
was cruel through kindness. Besides, she has had it 
very nicely stuffed and placed under a glass edged with 
red plush. It lies upon a little sky-blue pillow, and its 
beautiful enamelled eyes are green, exactly as if it were 
alive. You could almost swear you heard it purring. 
Which of us can hope to be stuffed and put under glass 
after death? Which of us will ever be regretted as 


much as a long-haired cat or a trained dog? 


XV 


THE postilions in their pale-green jackets cracked 
their whips joyously, and the carriage went at such a 


pace that the wheels looked like a shining disc, the 


132 


spokes of which could not be made out. ‘The 
dust they raised had not time to settle before the 
carriage was already out of sight. The best-driven 
equipages were left behind, and yet the dapple-gray 
horses had not turned a hair. Their fine thorough- 
bred legs travelled rapidly over the road which fled 
past them gray and rayed like a ribbon that is being 
rolled up. 

Musidora, carelessly leaning back upon the cushions, 
indulged in the most amorous anticipations. Her 
bright complexion was illumined with happiness, and 
her little hand, encased in a white glove, and resting 
on the edge of the carriage, beat time to an air which 
she hummed to herself. Her delight was so great that 
from time to time she burst out laughing spasmodically 
and almost feverishly; she felt as if she must shout, 
leap out and run as fast as she could, or do something 
equally violent in order to let off steam. All her lan- 
guor had vanished. ‘The girl who yesterday had to be 
carried to her bath, who could scarcely lift her feet to 
ascend the stairs, would now have thought nothing of 
performing the twelve labours of Hercules. Curiosity, 
desire, and love, the three terrible levers, any one of 


which could move the world, excited the faculties of 


133 


ALALEALEELALEALLELALEL ELS 
FORTUNIO 


her soul to their highest pitch. Every fibre in her 
being was stretched to breaking and vibrated like the 
chords of a lyre. 

She was about to see Fortunio, to hear him, to speak 
to him, to feed on the divine food of his beauty, to 
suspend her soul to his lips, to drink in each of his 
words, more precious than the diamonds which fall 
from the mouth of the virtuous maidens in Perrault’s 
Tales. Ah! to breathe the air which he breathed, to 
be caressed by the same sunbeam that played on his 
black hair, to look at a tree or a prospect on which his 
glance had rested, to have something in common with 
him, meant ineffable enjoyment, a world of secret 
ecstasy. At the thought Musidora’s heart leaped in her 
breast. 

The dandies set off at a gallop to see the face of the 
unknown duchess drawn by this equipage, and more 
than one nearly fell off with admiration. Musidora, 
who at any other time would have been flattered by the 
sensation she created, did not pay the least attention 
to it. She was no longer a coquette. A real meta- 
morphosis had taken place in her. Nothing was left 
of the Musidora of old but her name and her beauty. 


Even her beauty had no longer the same character. 


134 


FORTUNIO 


Until now she had been wittily beautiful; now she 
was passionately lovely. 

No doubt it will be thought unlikely that such a 
change should have occurred so suddenly, and that so 
great a love should have resulted from a single meeting. 
Whereto I shall answer that truth is stranger than 
fiction, and that fiction always has an appearance of 
probability because it is combined, arranged, and worked 
out beforehand to produce the effect of truth. Elec- 
troplate often looks more like silver plate than silver 
plate itself. Next, I will point out that a woman’s 
heart is a labyrinth so full of twists, turns, and obscure 
nooks, that even the greatest poets, who have ventured 
into it bearing in their hand the golden lamp of genius, 
have not always managed to find their way about, and 
that no one can boast of the possession of the thread 
which leads to the exit from that maze. As far as 
women are concerned, anything may be expected from 
them, especially absurdity. 

Many respectable people will no doubt be of the 
opinion that the lightning-bolts of love are mere 
romantic illusions, and that no one falls madly in love 
with a man or a woman who has been seen but once. 


For myself it is my belief that if one does not love a 


750 


K£¢¢¢ SS 4 ¢¢¢¢e¢ebetetseettese 
FORT UNO 


person at first sight, there is no reason to love her 
when she is seen a second time and still less reason 
when she is seen a third. 

Then Musidora had to fall in love with Fortunio, 
otherwise my novel could not have been written. 
Also, my hero, rich, young, handsome, witty, mysteri- 
ous, must of necessity have been adored at first sight. 
Many others, who do not have one-half these qualities, 
are just as successful. And what is there strange in a 
young woman loving a handsome young man? So, 
whether the thing is reasonable or not, Musidora adores 
Fortunio, whom she does not know or whom she has 
seen but once, which is the same thing. And this 
digression does not prevent her carriage from flying 
rapidly along the great avenue of the Champs-Elysées 
and passing the Arc de I’Etoile, the gigantic gate 
which opens on space. 

Nature on that day wore a very different aspect from 
that which it had when Musidora was traversing the 
Bois de Boulogne in every direction on the chance of 
meeting Fortunio. ‘The dark red of the buds had been 
replaced by tender green, the colour of hope, and the 
birds were warbling joyous promises on the branches; 


the heavens, with floating masses of white clouds, 


136 


S$t¢¢¢ eee eettttettttttttes 


CFO BO CTS VTS VFO eTe 


FORTUNIO 


looked like a great blue eye gazing lovingly upon earth. 
A sweet scent of new foliage and of green grass rose 
in the air like the incense of spring. Little yellow 
butterflies fluttered about the flowers, and played in 
the luminous rays which struck across the green back- 
ground of the landscape. Infinite delight filled heaven 
and earth; everything breathed joy and life; the atmos- 
phere was impregnated with youth and happiness, — at 
least, that was Musidora’s feeling. She saw every- 
thing through the prism of passion. 

Passions are like yellow, blue, and red glasses, which 
give their colour to everything. ‘Thus a prospect which, 
in a moment of despair appeared hideous, repulsive, bare 
as bones, repellent in its wretchedness and ugliness, 
and more inhospitable than a Scythian steppe, when 
looked at through the glass of happiness appears dia- 
pered with flowers, sparkling with shining waters, 
green sward, distant horizons,— in a word, a real 
earthly paradise. Nature is somewhat like a great 
symphony which each one interprets in his own way. 
One man hears the last cry of Jesus expiring on the 
cross, while his neighbour, on the other hand, believes 
he is listening to the pearly trills of the nightingale and 
the shrill piping of shepherds. 


Sy, 


tebbbtbbbebtbhbh tb dd ddd dhe 
FORTUNIO 


Musidora was just then interpreting the symphony 
-in the amorous and pastoral mode. 

The carriage drove on; the great trees, bending 
their crests, flew by to right and left like a routed 
army, and yet Fortunio did not appear. Musidora 
began to feel anxious. Suppose Fortunio had changed 
his mind! She read his note again; it seemed plain 
enough, and she felt somewhat reassured. 

At last she perceived at the very end of the avenue 
a little whirlwind of white dust which rapidly drew 
near. She felt so deeply moved that she was obliged 
to lean back in the carriage; the blood surged through 
her veins; her cheeks flushed and paled; her hand 
dropped the note, which she had pressed with almost 
convulsive vigour. “The supreme moment was ap- 
proaching which was to decide her fate. 

Soon the cloud of dust, opening like a classical cloud 
enshrouding a deity, allowed her to make out a black 
horse with long mane and tail, arched neck, narrow 
shoulders, clean fetlocks, fiery eyes and nostrils, re- 
sembling more a hippogriff than an ordinary quadruped. 
The horse was bestridden by a horseman who was 
none else than Fortunio in person. A short distance 


behind him galloped a thick-lipped Moor. 
138 


che ote a cba oh che che oe oe oe etek cece obec ce be chee 


ove eve ote eye vTe 


FORTUNIO 


It was indeed Fortunio, with that air of careless 
security which he never lost, and which gave him so 
much ascendency over every one. It seemed as though 
none of the ills to which man is heir could touch him; 
that he felt himself above the attacks of fate. Serenity 
reigned on his beautiful face as on a pedestal of 
marble. 

He advanced towards the carriage, making his horse 
perform prodigious curvetings. Sometimes he made it 
leap into the air, sometimes rear up and proceed on 
its hind-legs. The noble animal lent itself to all his 
exigencies with marvellous coquetry and grace. It 
seemed to seek to rival its master in gracefulness and 
boldness. “They appeared to be but one creature ani- 
mated by one soul; for Fortunio had neither spur nor 
whip, and did not even hold the bridle in his hands. 
He guided his steed by imperceptible means, and it 
was quite impossible to see by what method he trans- 
mitted his wishes to the intelligent animal. 

When within fifty yards of the carriage, he sent his 
horse at top speed until within a foot of the victoria. 
Musidora, terrified at the thought that he must be 
dashed against the wheels, uttered a great cry; but 


Fortunio, by a skilful trick well known to Arab horse- 


see 


deo ab ob ob oh deb hb eee tech heh bbe 
FORTUNIO 


men, suddenly pulled up his horse and passed without 
transition from the most rapid pace to the most com- 
plete immobility. One could have sworn that an en- 
chanter had spellbound horse and rider. After this he 
made his barb — for it was a barb—curvet by the 
carriage door, and as he made him kick violently, he 
bowed to Musidora with the same grace and the same 
ease as if he were standing on the solid floor of a 
drawing-room. 

‘¢ Madam,” said he, “‘ pardon a poor savage who 
in his long travels through the East and India has for- 
gotten the ways of European gallantry, and who scarcely 
knows now how to behave with ladies. If I had 
been presumptuous enough to suppose you wished 
for my presence, be assured I should have has- 
tened to you with all the speed that Tippoo is capable 
of; but I could not suppose that an extravagant fellow 
like myself, whom travels in far regions have made 
eccentric, could in any wise even pique your curiosity.” 

I should much like to tell you what was Musidora’s 
reply, but I never learned it. All I know is that she 
opened her lips as she raised to Fortunio’s face her 
beautiful, brilliant, melting eyes. She murmured some- 


thing, but I listened in vain and could not catch a single 


I40 


phbbbtbbtbbttbtbttbbh tbe 
FORTUNIO 


syllable. The sand grinding under the wheels and the 
trampling of the horses no doubt drowned Musidora’s 
inarticulate voice. I greatly regret it, for it would have 
been interesting to collect these precious words. 

“¢ Musidora,”’ went on Fortunio, in a soft, yet sono- 
rous voice, “‘no doubt you have been told many 
strange things about me. My friends are very im- 
aginative. What will you think when you find out that 
far from being the hero of a novel, a mysterious being, 
the victim of fate, I am simply an ordinary fellow, 
rather good-natured, although capricious and occasion- 
ally fantastic. I assure you, Musidora, that I drink 
wine and not molten gold at my meals; that I eat 
more oysters than pearls dissolved in vinegar; that I 
sleep in a bed, although more generally I lie in a ham- 
mock, and that I usually walk on my hind-legs, un- 
less I borrow those of Tippoo, Zerlina, or Agandecca, 
my favourite mare. ‘That is my way of life. I pre- 
fer verse to prose, music to verse. ‘There is nothing in 
the world [ hold superior to a painting by Titian except 
a beautiful woman. I have no other political opinions. 
I hate my friends only, and I should be rather in- 
clined to be a philanthropist if men were monkeys. 


I should be willing enough to believe in God if only 


I4I 


khebbbhb be eetetehd hd ttttttee 
FORTUNIO 


He were not so like a parish beadle, and I think roses 
are more useful than cabbages. Now you know me 
as well as if you had lived with me for ten years. 
And this is about all the information I can give 
about myself, for really I know nothing more.” 

Musidora could not help laughing at Fortunio’s pro- 
fession of faith. 

“ Really,” she said, “you are very modest if you 
think you are not eccentric, for, Mr. Fortunio, you are 
very much so.” 

“©T? Not at all. I am the most commonplace 
individual in the world. I eat only what I like and I 
live for myself alone. But the sun is getting hot and 
your parasol will soon be insufficient to protect you 
from its burning rays. Will you not do me the 
pleasure to rest for a moment in a hut, a sort of Indian 
wigwam, which I have close by? You could return to 
Paris this evening in the cool of the twilight.” 

“ Willingly,” replied Musidora. ‘TI shall not be 
sorry to see your veranda, your wigwam, as you call 
it, for I am told that you do not live anywhere, but 
that you roost.” 

“¢ Sometimes, but not always. I have spent more 


than one night in a tree, fastened by my sash to the 


142 


BEEP A LES Steet tts 
FORTUNIO 


trunk so that I should not break my head by falling 
backwards; but here I live like the most debonair of 
civilians. All I need is a red-tiled roof and green 
blinds to pass for the most Arcadian and sentimental 
fellow in the world. Hadji! Hadji! Come here, J 
have something to tell you.” 

In a couple of strides the Moor was by Fortunio’s 
side. Fortunio spoke a few words in a foreign tongue 
with a guttural and strange intonation. Hadji im- 
mediately went off at full speed. 

‘¢ Pardon me, madam, for speaking in your presence 
in an unknown tongue, but that rascal does not 
know a word of French or any other Christian 
language.” 

‘‘T hope,” said Musidora, “that you have not sent 
him to make any preparations on my account. Do 
you propose to have me received at the foot of your 
steps by a deputation of young girls dressed in white, 
with bouquets wrapped in paper? I insist that you 
shall not stand on ceremony with me.” 

“‘T merely sent Hadji,’ answered Fortunio, ‘‘ to put 
my tame lion and Betsy, my tigress, in their cages. 
They are charming animals, as gentle as lambs, but 


you might have been startled at the sight of them. [| 


143 


tobbbbbttttetttbdddd hd tet 
FORTUNIO 


am very old-maidish in this respect, —I cannot do 
without animals. My house is a regular menagerie.” 
«Are the bars of the cages solid?”’ said Musidora, 
rather alarmed. 
“¢ Oh, very solid,”’ replied Fortunio, laughing. ‘ Here 


we are.’ 


XVI 


ForTunio’s house had no facade. ‘Two rock-work 
terraces with corners of vermiculated stone, steps with 
pot-bellied balustrades, and pedestals supporting great 
vases of blue china filled with cacti, in the taste of the 
time of Louis XIII, rose on either side of a massive 
oaken gate admirably carved and adorned with two 
medallions of Roman emperors surrounded with 
wreaths. ‘These two terraces formed a sort of bastion, 
which kept off inquisitive looks. Below them were 
the stables. “The carriage with its four horses dashed 
at full gallop against the gate, which opened, turning on 
its hinges as if by magic without any one appearing to 
throw it back. ‘The carriage drove round a great 
sanded court surrounded by box-wood arcades, and thus 
gave my heroine time to look at the house of the 


beloved Fortunio. 


144 


che oh obs obs oe obs abe Be oe be che obecde che che be abe cde ope obe ee ob oho 
FORTUNIO 


At the back of the court sparkled in the bright sun- 
shine a building of white stones joined with such care 
that it seemed cut out of one block. Niches framed 
richly, and filled with antique busts, alone broke the 
surface of the wall, which was entirely devoid of win- 
dows. A bronze door, over which quivered the shadow 
of a striped awning, opened in the centre of the building. 
Three steps of white marble — on either side of which 
lay two sphinxes, their paws crossed under their pointed 
breasts — led to the door. 

The carriage stopped under the awning. Fortunio 
got down, raised the lovely girl, and placed her gently 
on the upper step. Then he touched the door, which 
slid into the wall and closed as soon as they had 
entered. 

They found themselves in a broad hall lighted from 
above, out of which four doors opened. It was paved 
with a mosaic representing pigeons perched on the edge 
of a great cup, bending to drink in it, with scrolls, 
flowers, and festoons, —the veritable mosaic of Zosi- 
mus of Pergamos which antiquarians believed lost. 

Pillars of yellow breccia, half engaged in the wall, 
supported an attic delicately carved, and formed a frame 


for waxed paintings, on the black background of which 


ig : 145 


choot abe abe obo os che che ob che he cede cheb coche oh echo dhe oh doce 
FORTUNIO 


were represented dancers of antiquity, lightly lifting up 
their tunics, curving their white, slender arms like the 
handles of alabaster amphore, or waving their hands, 
which bore sonorous crotala. Never were more grace- 
ful silhouettes painted on the walls of Herculaneum or 
Pompeii. 

Musidora stopped to look at them. 

“Oh, do not look at these daubs,” said Fortunio, 
showing Musidora into a room on the side. ‘* Confess 
that you expected something better. You must con- 
sider me a somewhat poor imitation of Sardanapalus, 
for until now I have offered to your gaze but mean 
enjoyments. My Asiatic and Babylonian splendours 
are very imperfect, and I scarcely manage to attain the 
mediocritas aurea of Horace. A hermit might live 
here.” 

In point of fact, the room into which he had led 
Musidora was exceedingly plain. It had no other fur- 
niture than a very low divan which ran around it. 
The walls, the ceiling, the floor were covered with 
exceedingly fine matting adorned with brilliant pat- 
terns. ‘Through blinds of China reeds, kept damp 
with scented water, showed the soft outlines of the 


distant landscape; the windows were glazed with white 


146 


kkeebettreeettettttetttts 
FORTUNIO 


panes adorned with red vine-leaves. In the centre of 
the ceiling, in a sort of round window, was fitted a 
glass globe filled with clear, limpid water, in which 
swam blue fishes with golden fins. ‘Their constant 
motion filled the room with changing prismatic reflec- 
tions which produced the most curious effect. Exactly 
below the globe a small jet of water shot up in a slen- 
der crystal thread, that wavered at the least breath and 
fell back into a porphyry basin in pearly, sparkling 
spray. In one corner swung a palm-leaf hammock, 
and in the other stood a magnificent hookah, its supple 
black rings twisted around the rock-crystal vase adorned 
with silver filigree-work in which the smoke was cooled. 
And that was all. 

s¢ Sit down, fair queen,” said Fortunio, cleverly re- 
moving Musidora’s shawl, as he led her by the hand to 
the corner of the divan. “Place this cushion behind 
you, this one under your elbow, and this under your 
feet. There, that is right. I[ tell you, Orientals alone 
know how to sit down properly, and one of their poets 
wrote these two lines, which contain more sense than 
all the philosophies in the world: ‘It is better to 
be seated than standing, to be lying down than seated, 


to be dead than lying down.’ Match me in all the 


147 


SBLALALLLALAALALALLLALLELS 
FORTUNIO 


lamentations of our fashionable rimesters this distich 
of good Ferid ed din Atar’s.” 

As he said these words, Fortunio stretched himself 
out upon the palm-leaf matting beside Musidora. 

“© Well, you are lying down, so you have reached the 
second degree of happiness,” said Musidora. ‘ This 
morning I came very near passing to the third.” 

“ What?” said Fortunio, raising himself on his 
elbow. ‘You nearly died this morning? Is it only 
your shadow that I see? No, you are very much 
alive,’ and to make sure of it, he took her foot and 
kissed it. ‘I can feel your soft, warm skin through 
this fine net-work.” 

“¢ All the same, if your note had not come at five 
minutes to twelve, I should now be white and cold, and 
secure for a long time in the delight of being laid out 
horizontally. At noon I was going to kill myself.” 

‘© However passionately Oriental I am, I share Ferid 
ed din’s opinion only up to the half of his second line. 
The last hemistich is excellent for men who are merely 
not millionaires, and for women whom ugliness compels 
to be virtuous; you are not of them. What motive 
could you have had to adopt the violent resolution to 


slay yourself at noon exactly? ” 


148 


ttbtetetttettttttttttttte 
FORTUNIO 


“[ do not know. I had the vapours; the blue 
devils were worrying me; I was quite worn out, — 
I did not know how to spend my day ; so that, unable 
to kill time, I concluded to kill myself, and I should 
certainly have done it if the wish to try your carriage 
had not recalled me to life.” 

“© Many people that [ am acquainted with have satis- 
fied themselves with much less good reasons to live 
than that one. One of my friends, who had already 
put the barrel of his pistol into his mouth, very 
fortunately remembered that he had forgotten to write 
his epitaph. The notion of not having an epitaph was 
distinctly unpleasant to him. He laid his pistol on the 
table, took a sheet of paper, and wrote the following 
verses : — 

‘ Over cruel Fate the will doth triumph, 

The feeblest mortal destiny may conquer 

If he has courage and —’ 
Here my unfortunate friend stopped for lack of a rime. 
He scratched his head and bit his fingers, but in vain; 
he rang for a servant and had him bring a dictionary 
of rimes which he read from end to end without find- 
ing what he wanted; for there is no rime to ‘ triumph.’ 


De Marcilly happened to come in and took him off to 


149 


che che obs oe che che che che che che che cbr abe eho cho che che obs che che be abe checks 
FORTUNIO 


a gambling-house, where he won a hundred thousand 
francs that set him going again. Since that time he 
has led a jolly life, and never kisses the barrel of his 
pistols. [his most true story proves the usefulness of 
difficult rimes in the composition of epitaphs.” 

‘© Oh, Fortunio, you are cruel and sarcastic!” said 
Musidora, with a slight accent of reproach. “Do you 
suppose that unrequited love is not a very good reason 
for dying? ” 

Fortunio fixed his limpid eyes upon her with an 
expression of infinite sweetness, then with a quick 
motion, he sprang from his matting to the divan, and 
putting one of his arms behind her he pressed her 
to him. | 

“Why, who told you, child, that your love was 
disdained ? ”’ 

A frightful growl, hoarse and guttural, was heard not 
far from the room. Musidora rose terrified. 

“¢ It is only my tigress, which scents me and wants 
to see me. The devil of a brute has broken her chain. 
She is always doing it. Excuse me, madam, [ shall 
tie her up more carefully and talk to her a little to 
calm her. She is as jealous of me as if she were a 


woman.” 


150 


kkebekbbbeeetetebettttetts 
FORTUNIO 


Fortunio took up a Malay creese concealed unde: 
the cushion, and went out. Musidora heard him play- 
ing with the tigress in the corridor. Fortunio spoke 
in an unknown tongue which the tigress seemed to 
understand, and to which she replied with low roars, 
The joyous beating of her tail sounded on the wall like 
the blows of a flail. After a few moments the sound 
died away, and Fortunio returned. He had changed 
his riding costume and wore a remarkably magnificent 
dress: a brocade caftan with wide sleeves, bound 
around the waist with a golden cord, fell in handsome 
folds around his graceful and robust form; on his head 
was a cap of red velvet embroidered in gold and pearls, 
with a long tassel hanging down his back. His hair, 
naturally curly, fell in the most picturesque black 
spirals; his bare feet were at ease in Turkish slippers ; 
full, striped silk drawers completed his dress. Through 
his open shirt could be seen the whiteness of his mar- 
ble chest, on which shone a small amulet adorned with 
embroidery and spangles, very like the small bags 
which Neapolitan fishermen wear around their necks. 
Was it, in Fortunio’s case, a matter of superstition, 
eccentricity, caprice, a tender souvenir, or mere love 


of local colour? No one has ever known. What is 


151 


$eeeeebeeeeteettettetdttes 
FOR TUNYDO 


certain is that the bright colours of the shining amulet 
brought out wonderfully the marble whiteness of his 
supple, polished flesh. 

‘© Musidora,” said he, as he re-entered the room, 
“are you hungry or thirsty? Let us try to get some- 
thing to eat and drink. You will forgive the defects 
of a country household managed by a half-wild fellow 
who, so far as cookery goes, knows only how to dress 
elephants’ feet and bisons’ humps. Come this way,” 
said he, raising the portiére; “do not be afraid.” 

Fortunio, having put his arm around Musidora’s 
waist like Othello leading out Desdemona, made his 
trembling beauty enter a small room decorated in the 
Pompadour style. It was hung with rose damask with 
a pattern of silver flowers; there were paintings by 
Watteau above the doors, and the ceiling represented 
an apple-green sky dappled with cloudlets and peopled 
with swarms of puffy cupids casting flowers broadcast. 
Although it was bright daylight everywhere else, it was 
night in the small drawing-room, for it is ignoble and 
utterly unworthy of a man who professes elegant sen- 
suality to eat save by candle-light. Two chandeliers, 
fastened by red and silver cords harmonising with the 


hangings, hung from the ceiling. Ten candelabra, 


152 


ttheebettreetetedttbtttt tte 
BOR UNI © 


laden with tapers, intertwining their capricious branches 
with the borders of the bays, shed a dazzling light 
upon the gilded furniture and the hangings. At the 
back, under a baldacchino with silver tassels, spread out 
like a gigantic bed, a marvellous sofa of white satin 
brocaded with gold. In every corner were shelves and 
cabinets in old lacquer-work, covered with Chinese 
figures, Japanese vases, and porcelain figures. It was a 
regular great lady’s boudoir. 

Fortunio took an arm-chair and placed it exactly in 
the centre of the room. He placed another opposite 
to it and sat down, after requesting Musidora to do 
the same. 

“¢ Now let us eat,’”’ he said in the most serious fashion 
possible. ‘ I have more appetite than I expected,’ and 
he pulled up his cuffs like a man about to carve. 

Musidora looked at him with some anxiety, and for 
a moment feared he had lost his reason, though he 
seemed perfectly self-possessed ; yet there was nothing 
in the room to indicate preparations for a meal, neither 
table nor attendants. Suddenly two leaves of the floor 
fell back, and to the great surprise of Musidora, a 
splendidly lighted table rose slowly, accompanied by 


two maids. The figures and ornaments of the centre- 


153 


LELLALALALALALALLALL LLL LA LES 
AE) Re RR lib WS 
piece, every part of which sparkled with light, were so 
brilliant as to eclipse the very orb of day itself. The 
water-green of the malachite urns, in which the cham- 
pagne was shivering in its thin glass robe under the 
white crystals of ice, contrasted happily with the red 
tones of the gold. Baskets of gold and silver filigree- 
work of the most precious workmanship, with patterns 
more delicate and exquisitely wrought than lace, were 
filled with the rarest fruits: grapes red and yellow as 
amber, huge crimson peaches, pineapples with saw- 
edged leaves, giving out a warm, tropical scent, and 
cherries and strawberries of uncommon size. The 
first fruits of spring and the last presents which autumn 
pours out from its late basket met on this table, amazed 
at being for the first time brought face to face. The 
seasons and the ordinary course of nature did not ap- 
pear to exist, so far as Fortunio was concerned. 
From porphyry bowls rose pyramids of West Indian 
preserves, roses, pomegranates, oranges, lemons, — 
everything, indeed, that the most luxurious gorman- 
dism could collect in the way of refined, exquisite, and 
ruinously rare confections. I have, contrary to the 
usual custom, begun by the dessert, but is not the 


dessert the whole of the dinner for a pretty woman? 


154 


the ecb oe oe oh oh oe oh abe catechol ole chaebol oe oe 


ore ore wre ve OTe OTS OVS WTO Te vie WW 


FORTUNIO 


However, in order to reassure the reader, who might 
think these dishes not very substantial for a hero of the 
size and strength of Fortunio, I shall add that in 
blazoned dishes, admirably chased, and placed upon 
braziers of platinum inlaid with niello, smoked roast 
quails surrounded by chaplets of ortolans, fish-balls, 
game stews, and for chief dish a China pheasant with 
its feathers on, and. besides all this, milt of red mullet, 
cray fish, and other stimulants to drink. 

Champagne, the only wine I have named, may seem 
too frivolous and of too transitory a sparkle for so 
serious a toper as Fortunio. Flagons of Bohemian 
glass embroidered with golden arabesques, contained 
within their transparent form enough to produce a 
proper and suitable intoxication: “Tokay wine, such 
as Metternich himself never drank; Johannisberger, 
six times superior to the nectar of the gods so far as 
savour and bouquet go; real wine of Shiraz, of which 
at the time this story was written there were only two 
bottles in Europe, the one owned by George and the 
other by de Marcilly, who kept them under triple locks 
for some supreme occasion. 

‘“¢ Fortunio, you have not kept your word, you have 


indulged, on my account, in frightful extravagance,” 


155 


decd cke ke he eh chee decbede ccc bebe 
FORTUNIO 


said Musidora, in a tone of friendly reproach. ‘ Did 
“you expect company? This collation might serve a 
Gamache or a Gargantua.” 

“ Not at all, dear queen. I have not made the least 
preparation, for no one loathes ceremony more than [| 
do. I am of the opinion that cordiality is the best 
sauce. This is a mere stand-by which is always kept 
ready for me day and night, so that if I happen to be 
hungry at any time, there is no necessity to go to the 
yard,to wring a chicken’s neck, pluck it, and spit it. 
As I have told you, I am of most patriarchal simpli- 
city: I eat only when hungry and drink only when 
thirsty ; when I am sleepy, I go to bed. But I beg 
of you, my angel, to remember that you are at table. 
You are taking nothing, and your food remains on your 
plate untouched. Do not fear to cause me disenchant- 
ment by dining with a good appetite. I do not share 
Lord Byron’s views on this point, and besides, I do 
not like wings. I should be very sorry, madam, if you 
were merely a vapour.” 

In spite of Fortunio’s request, Musidora was satis- 
fied with nibbling at a few sweets and drinking two or 
three glasses of rosy tea, with a small glass of Barba- 


does cream. Her emotion had destroyed her appetite, 


156 


tt¢t¢ebe¢¢¢t¢¢¢ete¢ettetetee 
PHORTUNIO 


and the presence of the ideal of her heart moved her 
to such an extent that she could scarcely carry her fork 
to her mouth. What perfect happiness, to dine alone 
with the impalpable Fortunio, to be waited upon by 
him in his retreat unknown to every one else, to be 
avenged in such splendid fashion of the hypocritical 
airs of compassion of Phoebe and Arabella; and per- 
haps, — though she scarcely dared to allow her mind to 
dwell upon the delightful and voluptuous thought, — to 
lay her head upon that handsome, solid, white chest 
and entwine her arms around that round, fair neck. 

Fortunio was most attentive to her, and he paid 
her with the lordly, almost regal air which came nat- 
urally to him, most exquisitely graceful and delicate 
compliments. 

I wish I could report their brilliant conversation, but 
I cannot do so without manifesting unbearable vanity. 
As a conscientious novelist, I have invented so perfect 
a hero that I am afraid to make use of him. [I feel 
much the same embarrassment, s¢ parva licet componere 
magnis, as did Milton when he had to make the 
Almighty speak in that wonderful poem, “ Paradise 
Lost.” I can find nothing fine or splendid enough 


for my purpose. ‘The course of my narration, besides, 


157 


tttbtttteetetetttttetttsees 

FORTUNIO 
compels me to use expressions like this: * At this 
witty remark of Fortunio’s, a lovely smile lighted up 
Musidora’s face.” ‘The remark must necessarily be 
witty, or at least appear to be so, which is a difficult 
matter. ‘There is another very unpleasant situation for 
an author who is gifted with any modesty : it is when 
the hero recites a piece of verse which deeply impresses 
the hearers, who exclaim at the end of each stanza, 
“ Wonderful! sublime! splendid! excellent!” For 
myself, as I am shy, I shall gladly turn to account the 
convenient method of the old painters who, when they 
did not know how to draw something, or found it too 
difficult to depict, wrote in its place, “ Currus venustus,” 
or ‘¢ Pulcher homo,” according as it was a man ora 
carriage. 

The repast had long been finished, the table had dis- 
appeared through the trap like a perjured wretch in the 
opera, and Fortunio, seated upon the divan, passed his 
hand through the waves of Musidora’s fair hair. Her 
head, bowed by love, sank like a flower full of dew; 
her whole body trembled spasmodically ; her heaving 
breast rose and fell beneath her dress; her arms fell 
limp, she seemed about to faint. Fortunio bent towards 


her, and their lips met in a delicious, endless kiss. 


158 


kebbhdh dd tdcbttctttttetetttte 
FORTUNIO 


XVII 


Musrpora had not breathed a word of her love to For- 
tunio. That was a great mistake. She ought to have 
made endless speeches and indulged in the most tran- 
scendental metaphysics of sentiment. I should have 
found a fine opportunity for showing that “her heart 
was admirably formed for love,” and I could have filled 
quite a comfortable number of pages; but the truth 
is that she said nothing, and being a fantastic novel- 
ist, truth is too sacred to allow me to invent a single 
sentence. 

Her eyes, filled with a moist light, her heaving 
bosom, her trembling voice, a sudden paleness swiftly 
followed by a sudden flush, told of the state of her 
soul much more eloquently than the most brilliant 
verses could have done, and Fortunio’s mute kiss 
was in its way a perfect reply. Besides, you know 
very well that people talk only when they have noth- 
ing to say. 

Perhaps it will be thought that Musidora yielded 
very quickly to Fortunio, for this was only the second 
time that she had met him; but I must remind you 


on her behalf that Musidora did not profess to be vir- 


159 


bebbebbhbetettbdhhttddttéetet 
FORTUNIO 


tuous, —and then, by way of apophthegm, that love 
is prodigal, and that to love is to give.. So Musidora 
attacked Fortunio’s heart by voluptuousness, which is 
an excellent plan. 

I shall turn to account the moments during which 
my two chief characters forget the world, to say some- 
thing about my hero; for every writer’s duty is to un- 
ravel for his reader the skein which he has ravelled at 
will, and to clear away the mysterious clouds which he 
has brought together himself at the very beginning 
of his work, so that the end might not be too early 
perceived. 

Fortunio is a young nobleman of the highest aristoc- 
racy, just as much an aristocrat as a king, and as good 
a nobleman. The Marquis Fortunio, his father, whose 
fortune was impaired, had sent him, still very young, 
to India, to one of his uncles (pray forgive the uncle!), 
a nabob of colossal and titanic wealth. Fortunio’s 
youth was spent in hunting tigers and elephants, in 
being carried in palanquins, drinking arrack, chewing 
betel, and watching, seated upon a Persian carpet, 
dancing-girls with golden anklets on their little feet, 
and their breasts enclosed in sheaths of scented wood. 


His uncle, a clever, voluptuous old man, who had his 


160 


bbbbbbb bbb bebe bb 
PORE UN I'O 


own ideas as to the education of children, had allowed 
Fortunio’s character to develop freely ; being desirous, 
he said, to see how a child would turn out if he were 
never repressed and enjoyed the fullest opportunities of 
having his own way. His own inexhaustible fortune 
afforded him every facility for carrying out this plan 
of education, and his nephew never had any caprice 
which had not at once been satisfied. He never spoke 
to the lad of morals or religion; he did not terrify 
him with thoughts of God, the devil, or even the 
statute law,— for laws do not exist for a man who 
has twenty millions a year. He allowed this vigorous 
human plant to shoot out right and left its strong 
branches laden with wild perfume. He cut off noth- 
ing, not a knot, not a single contorted branch; on the 
other hand, he did not destroy a single leaf or a 
single flower. 

Fortunio remained such as God had made him. 
Never did an unsatisfied desire sink back into his heart 
to gnaw it with its rat-like teeth. His passions, 
always gratified, left not a mark, not a wrinkle on his 
brow; he was gentle, calm, and strong like a god, 
whose exterminating power he almost possessed. 


Young, handsome, vigorous, rich, witty, there was no 


II 161 


ALEAAALAALLAAALALLLALALLALL LES 
KHOR T WN 


one on earth whom he could envy, and he felt himself 
envied by all. He did not even have to desire the 
beauty of women, for his mistresses willingly confessed 
that they were inferior to him in the inimitable perfec- 
tion of form. 

At fifteen years of age he had a seraglio of five hun- 
dred slaves of all races to serve him, and as many 
lacs of rupees as he could spend. His uncle’s treasury 
was open to him, and he drew heavily upon it. Never 
did care of the future or of his fortune shadow his fair 
brow with its bat-like wings. He lived careless in a 
golden atmosphere, never supposing that it could be 
otherwise. Great was his surprise when he discovered 
that there were actually people who did not have three 
hundred thousand a year. Like all spoiled children, 
Fortunio became a superior man. He had his faults 
and also his qualities. Ordinary teachers will not 
admit that a mountain pre-supposes a valley, a tower a 
well, and anything which shines in the sun a deep 
dark excavation from which it has been drawn. 

There is nothing more detestable in this world than 
a man smoothed and planed like a board, incapable of 
running the risk of being hanged, and who has not in 


him the stuff for a crime or two. 


162 


keteeebettetttetttetttttst 
FORTUNIO 


Fortunio was capable of everything, for good as well 
as for evil, but his position was such that he had no 
need to do harm... From the height of his wealth he 
beheld men so small that he did not trouble with them. 
The black swarm of wretches crawling about his feet 
and labouring for a year to earn with difficulty as much 
gold as he spent in a month, did not appear to him 
worthy of the attention of a well-born man. He did 
not understand charity or philanthropy, but his caprices 
caused an abundant shower of gold to rain constantly 
around him, and all who lived in his shadow soon be- 
came rich. In fine, he did more good than thirty 
thousand virtuous men who distribute cheap soup. He 
was beneficent after the fashion of the sun, which, 
without giving a cent to anybody, gives life and riches 
to the whole world. 

As he had never had any teacher, he knew a great 
many things and knew them thoroughly, having learned 
them alone. Being placed very high and not estopped 
by any prejudice of birth or position, he was broad- 
minded and far-seeing. If he had chosen to be an 
emperor or a king, he could have been one. Nothing 
would have been easier, with his boldness, his intelli- 


gence, his beauty, his knowledge of men, and his tre- 


163 


ALALEALLALLLALALE ALLL AL LAS 
FORTUNIO 


mendous means of corruption. ‘Through carelessness - 


and disdain he left potentates in peace on their thrones, 
satisfied with being an actual king. 

A distinctive feature of Fortunio’s character was that, 
capable of everything, he was in no wise disillusioned ; 
he estimated nothing above its proper value, but he did 
not systematically despise anything. As all his desires 
were fulfilled almost as soon as they were formed, he 
did not experience the fatigue caused by the attraction 
of the soul towards an object which it cannot reach; 
for it is not enjoyment that wears men out, but 
desire. He loved wine, good cheer, horses, and women, 
just as if he had never had any of them. Whatever 
was beautiful, splendid, and radiant pleased him. He 
understood equally well the beauty of a hut with its 
vine-clad door, its roof with brown, velvety moss 
strewn with wild flowers, and the magnificence of a 
marble palace with its fluted columns and its attic 
studded with endless white statues. He admired 
equally art and nature; he was passionately fond of 
red-haired women, which did not prevent his being 
entirely satisfied with negresses and coloured girls. 
Spanish women charmed him, but he adored English 


women, and did not disdain Hindoos; even French 


164 


bebbbbbbteeettteeteteees 
TOR UN TO 


women struck him as very agreeable. He had also a 
marked taste for Raphael’s Madonnas and Titian’s 
courtesans. In a word, he was an eclectic of the very 
first water, and no one ever carried cosmopolitanism 
farther than he. And yet, —TI confess it to his shame, 
or his praise, — he was never known to have a regular 
mistress, and no one ever knew that he had a regular 
domicile. As for his slaves, black, yellow, or red, 
they were thrashed as often as the Scapins of comedy 
or the Daves in Plautus’ plays. Strangely enough, he 
was worshipped by his servants, who would have gone 
through fire and water to please him. He treated 
them so much like brutes that he had made them 
believe they were dogs, and had inspired them with 
the loving servility of that animal. Never did he 
have to repeat an order. Indeed, he rarely took the 
trouble to express his will by words; a gesture, a 
glance was sufficient. 

He had always in his carriage-house a carriage and 
pair ready harnessed, and two horses saddled and 
bridled ; a dinner was constantly held prepared in the 
pantry ; Fortunio had never yet had to wait for any 
one or anything. Obstacles and delays were unknown 


to him. He did not know what to-morrow meant; 


165 


ttetetbbbedbbededbdbbbt dt 
FORTUNIO 


in his case everything could be to-day ; he was able to 
turn the future into the present. 

When his uncle died, he was about twenty, and he 
felt the wish to see Europe, France, Paris; so he came, 
bringing with him twenty fortunes, tons of gold, coffers 
of diamonds, etc. 

At first, accustomed as he was to Oriental splendour, 
everything struck him as mean, wretched, and small. 
The richest noblemen seemed to him like ragged beg- 
gars. Yet he very soon discovered, under the mean 
and dull aspect, a whole world of ideas the very exist- 
ence of which he had not hitherto suspected. In this 
world he made the most rapid progress, and was soon 
as much at home in it as a thorough-bred Parisian, 
thanks to his admirable natural instinct. It delighted 
him, after having tasted the deep, wild charm of bar- 
baric life, to enjoy the refinements of the highest 
civilisation ; after having hunted tigers on an elephant’s 
back with Malays in the Javanese jungles he liked to 
go hunting in company with members of Parliament, 
mounted on a half-bred hunter and sporting pink; after 
having dressed in muslin, and, seated cross-legged on a 
mat of perfumed reeds in the shadow of the great 


pagoda at Benares, watching the genuine bayaderes, it 


166 


ch saeco abe aba oe cle cbr rade ce fae abe be obec eae eles 
FORTUNIO 


amused him to watch at the Opera, holding his glasses 
in his yellow kid-gloved hands, Mademoiselle Taglioni 
in *¢’The God and the Bayadere.” Only at first he 
had found it very difficult to keep from beheading the 
people who bored him. 

The only thing to which his Eastern abies could 
not conform was to see his house open to everybody, 
and bold pirates insinuate themselves into the secret 
recesses of his life under the guise of intimate friends. 
He met his companions in pleasure in society, at the 
theatre, out driving, but no one had set foot in his 
home. If he could not help entertaining them, he 
did so in some apartment ‘engaged for the purpose, and 
which he immediately left for fear they should return 
to it. 

His life was divided into two very complete parts : 
the one entirely external, with steeplechases, joyous 
suppers, and follies of all kinds; the other mysterious, 
apart, and absolutely unknown. 

Fortunio had been told once that he had had neither 
a duchess nor an opera dancer, and that he needed 
these to. be entirely in the fashion; whereto he re- 
plied that he looked upon the former as too old and 


the latter as too thin: nevertheless he was seen the 


167 


ALALLALELLALAALLALLLAE LAA 
FORTUNIO 


next day at the Bouffes with an opera dancer, and the 
day after that with a duchess. ‘The dancer was plump 
and the duchess young, which was doubly extraordinary. 
Having made this sacrifice to conventionalities, For- 
tunio resumed his usual way of life, appearing and 
disappearing without ever saying where he went or 
whence he came. His companions’ curiosity had at 
first been excited to the highest degree, but little by 
little it had been dulled, and Fortunio had been taken 
for what he chose to represent himself. 

Musidora’s love had awakened the desire to pene- 
trate the mystery of his life, and his eccentricities were 
more than ever talked about, yet every one was com- 
pelled to be satisfied with vague conjectures ; the real 
truth was unknown; George himself knew of Fortunio 
only what related to his life in India. I have myself 
nothing more particular to tell my reader about him; 
nevertheless I hope soon to track him into his secret 


retreat. 


XVIII 


THE victoria with the dapple-gray horses returned 
empty to Musidora’s house, to the great astonishment 


of Jacintha, Jack, and Zamora. Musidora the dove- 


168 


. 


kkbbebtbetbttttttttttt tod 
FOREPUNTO 


like had chosen for that night the nest of Fortunio 
the eagle. 

A rosy red sunbeam struck through the curtains of 
a sumptuous bed with spiral columns surmounted by 
a carved frieze. Like a bee hesitating before it alights 
on a flower, it quivered on Musidora’s lips, asleep with 
her hair loose and her arms gracefully rounded above 
her head. Fortunio, leaning on his elbow, was watch- 
ing with melancholy attention the young girl over- 
shadowed by the angel of sleep. Her pure and delicate 
form showed in all its perfection. Her skin, fine and 
satiny like a camellia leaf, slightly flushed here and 
there by a fold of the sheet or the mark of a burning 
kiss, shone in the warm moisture of repose. One 
tress of her hair, passed between her neck and her 
arm, fell upon her breast which it seemed to seek to 
bite like Cleopatra’s asp. At the foot of the bed one 
of her white dimpled feet, the nails polished like agate, 
. the heel rosy, the ankle of the daintiest, emerged from 
under the coverlet ; the other, drawn back, could be 
vaguely made out under the many folds. The tawny, 
golden complexion of Fortunio contrasted happily with 
the ideal fairness of Musidora. It was like a Giorgione 


by the side of a Lawrence, like yellow Italian amber 


169 


$teteeteeeetetetehtktektckesd 
FORTUNIO 


by the side of blue-veined English alabaster, and it 
would have been difficult to say which was the more 
lovely of the pair. 

Fortunio’s practised eye analysed the beauties of his 
mistress with the double gaze of a lover and an artist. 
He was as much of a connoisseur in women as in 
statues and horses, which is saying not a little. Ap- 
parently he was satisfied with his examination, for a 
smile of content hovered over his lips; he bent over 
Musidora, and kissed her softly lest he should wake 
her. Then he resumed his silent contemplation. 

“She is very beautiful,’ he murmured, “ but decid- 
edly I prefer Soudja-Sari, my Javanese girl. I shall go 
and see her to-morrow.”’ 

“Did you not speak, my dear lord?” said Musi- 
dora, raising her long lashes. 

“© No, queenlet,” replied Fortunio, pressing her in 


his arms. 


XIX 


Here I am sunk in perplexity again. I had managed 
to discover the origin of Fortunio’s wealth; I had 
obtained fairly satisfactory information concerning the 


manner in which he was brought up, his mode of life, 


170 


LEELEALELLEELLDALE LEE EES 
HE O'RS UIN- TO 


his views on morality and philosophy; in spite of all 
his cleverness in concealing himself and his Protean 
skill in avoiding curiosity, I had managed to lay my 
hand on him and to penetrate into one of his retreats, 
— perhaps even his chief retreat; and now all my 
trouble is lost. I have to set out again and seek in 
every direction for the solution of this new mystery. 
What accursed idea induced that confounded Fortunio 
to utter by Musidora’s side so incongruous a name as 
Soudja-Sari? Evidently my feminine readers will want 
to know who is Soudja-Sari the Javanese girl. Is she 
a mistress whom Fortunio had in India, the woman 
to whom was addressed the Malay pantoum found in 
the stolen pocket-book and translated by the date-sell- 
ing rajah? I cannot answer this important question. 
It is the first time that I have heard the name of 
Soudja-Sari; she is as much a stranger to me as the 
Great Khan of Tartary, and I confess that this re- 
membrance of Fortunio’s is entirely out of place. Does 
he not possess Musidora, a lovely creature, a peerless 
pearl, whose soul, regenerated by love, is as beautiful 
as its frame, a supreme effort of nature to prove its 
power, the most suave, delicate, perfect, and finished 


creature imaginable? Is not that enough for a novel, 


171 


HOR FE WINES 


and am I to favour my libertine hero so far as to 
grant him two mistresses at once? It would be far 
better to give six lovers to Musidora than two mis- 
tresses to Fortunio; women would forgive me more 
easily, though Heaven knows why. Yet I shall do 
my best to satisfy the curiosity of the ladies. 

Soudja-Sari is not a former mistress of Fortunio’s, 
since he has just said that he means to go to see her 
to-morrow. Where is he going to see her? It can- 
not be in Java, for there is no railway yet between 
Paris and Java, and even did Fortunio possess the 
wand of Abaris, he could not make the trip between 
evening and morning ; and he promised Musidora to 
accompany her to the Opera at the next performance. 
Soudja-Sari, therefore, must be in Paris or its suburbs, 
but in what part? Is it in the Cité Bergére, where 
dwell the houris, or the Faubourg Saint-Germain ? 
At Saint-Maur or at Auteuil? Alice jacet lepus, — that 
is the question. 

I must be content with telling you that Soudja-Sari 
means ‘The Languorous Eye,”’ in accordance with 
Eastern custom which gives women names drawn from 
their physical peculiarities. “Thanks to the translation 


of this significant name, which I owe to the kindness 


172 


of a member of the Asiatic Society deeply versed in 
Javanese, Malay, and other Indian tongues, we now 
know that Soudja-Sari is a beautiful girl with a vo- 
luptuous eye, with a velvety, dreamy look. Which 
shall win, Soudja-Sari’s jet-like eyes or Musidora’s 


sea-green eyes P 


xX 


Fortunio’s house plunged into the river on one side. 
A white marble staircase, some of the steps of which 
were above or under water according to the abundance 
of rain or the heat of the sun, led from Fortunio’s room 
to a little gilded, painted boat covered with a silk 
awning. 

Fortunio proposed to take a turn on the river before 
breakfast. Musidora agreed. She sat down under the 
awning on a pile of cushions; Fortunio lay down at 
her feet, smoking his hookah, and four negroes dressed 
in red jackets sent the boat gliding along like a king- 
fisher that cuts the water with its wing. Musidora 
plunged her slender hand in Fortunio’s black, silky hair 
with ineffable delight. At last she had him, that long- 
wished-for Fortunio, seated at her feet, his head resting 


in her lap; she had eaten at his table, lain in his bed, 


nus 


che choos ke ake Ae che che ae abe a obec cde ee che cb eee ah obech 
FORTUNIO 


slept in his arms. At one step she had penetrated into 
that unknown life so dificult to enter; she possessed 
the man she loved, she who had been possessed by men 
she hated. She experienced that total forgetfulness of 
everything which comes of true love, and allowed 
herself to be carelessly borne away on the swift current 
of passion. Her previous life was entirely effaced; she 
lived only since the night before, she had begun to live 
only from the day when she had seen Fortunio. 

Her only fear was lest her life should not be long 
enough to prove her love for him. ‘Ten years, the 
longest time which one dare venture to suggest for a 
liaison, appeared to her very short. She would have 
liked to preserve her dear passion beyond the tomb: she 
who had hitherto had been more atheistical than Vol- 
taire himself believed firmly in the immortality of the 
soul, in order to indulge the hope of loving Fortunio to 
all eternity. 

The boat glided swiftly over the calm sultans of 
the river; the four sweeps of the rowers did not 
splash, and the one sound heard was the ripple of 
the water that rushed past the boat in foamy 
waves. Fortunio dropped his hookah, took Musidora’s 


two feet, placed them on his chest as on an ivory foot- 


174 


LLAELEALAL ALAA ttt sttettse 
RORPUN 1LO 


stool, and began to whistle carelessly a quaint and 
melancholy air. ‘The shadows of the poplars on the 
bank fell upon the boat, which seemed to float in a sea 
of foliage. Jimp-waisted dragon-flies flew under the 
awning in the transparent whirlwind of their gauzy 
wings, and gazed at our two lovers with their emerald 
eyes. A silver-bellied fish leaped here and there and 
marked the oily surface of the water with a passing 
gleam of light. There was not a breath of air; the 
light tops of the reeds were motionless, and the boat’s 
ensign fell into the water in soft, heavy folds. The 
sky, filled with light, was silvery gray, for the intense 
noonday sun had killed the blue, and on the edge of the 
horizon rose a warm dun-coloured mist like that of the 
Egyptian skies. 

“ By Jove!” said Fortunio, throwing off the white 
cashmere burnoose which he wore, “I have a great 


> 


mind to bathe;”’ and he sprang from the gunwale of 
the boat. 

Although Musidora was a swimmer, she could not 
repress an emotion of terror on seeing the water boil as 
it closed over Fortunio’s head, but he soon reappeared, 
shaking his long hair, which dropped on his shoulders. 


Fortunio swam as well as the finest and most elegant 


—— | 


Bi 


LLLLAALLAALLAAALALALLEALL ASA 
OW Vas Oe Oe Ee) 


Triton in Neptune’s court; the fishes themselves would 
not have had much chance against him. He was 
beautiful to look at. His handsome shoulders, firm and 
polished, and pearly with drops of water, shone like 
submerged marble; the amorous wave shimmered with 
pleasure as it touched his fair body, and suspended 
silver pearls from his arms. The aquatic plants, which 
he had put into his hair, set off its bright lustrous 
black with their pale, glaucous green. He might have 
been taken for the god of the river in person. 

Musidora could not sufficiently admire that beauty 
superior to the perfection of the loveliest of women. 
Neither Phoebus Apollo, the young, radiant god, nor 
Scamander fatal to virgins, nor Endymion the pale lover 
of the moon,— none of the ideal forms realised by sculp- 
tors or poets could have borne comparison with my 
hero. He was the last type of manly beauty, which has 
disappeared from the world since the new era. Phidias 
himself, or Lysippus, Alexander’s sculptor, could not 
have dreamed of a more pure and more perfect form. 

‘© Why do you not bathe?” said Fortunio to Musi- 
dora, as he drew near the boat. ‘I have been told 
that you can swim, little one.” 


‘Yes, but those negroes ? ” 


176 


a . 
CO ee Ss ae. = eee 


LORS N © 


“© Those negroes |! — what do they matter? ? Besides, 
they are not men, they are mutes.” 

So Musidora undid her dress and slipped into the 
river. Her long hair floated behind her like a golden 
mantle, and from time to time her satiny back showed 
on the surface of the water like the back of a Rubens 
nymph, and her little heels as rosy as the fingers of 
dawn. Fortunio and she swam side by side like twin 
swans, and after describing some graceful curves to 
break the force of the current, they returned to their 
point of departure and set foot on the lower steps of 
the marble stair. 

Two handsome mulatto girls awaited them with 
great wrappers of soft, warm stuff, in which they envel- 
oped themselves. 

“Well, my fair naiad,” said Fortunio, draped in his 
wrapper ; “do we not look like two antique statues? 
I am a passable Triton ; and the fresh water need no 
longer envy the salt, —a Venus has arisen from it who 
is at least as good as the other. Why is there not 
a Phidias on the shore? ‘The modern world would 
then have its Venus Anadyomene. _ But our sculptors 
are fit only to cut paving-stones or to make deities of 


illustrious men in frock coats. With this accursed 


177 


deck bee oe oe de de de cbr oe cee cece ce obec ce cde ce oe cab 
FORTUNIO 

civilisation, which has no other object than to stick up 
on a pedestal the aristocracy of cobblers and candle- 
makers, the feeling for form is being lost; and God 
will one of these mornings be obliged to get out of 
his Voltairean arm-chair to make the world over, for 
it has been destroyed by the numberless cads who 
hate all splendour and all beauty, and who constitute 
modern nations. A people which was even slightly 
civilised, in the true sense of the word, would erect a 
temple and statue to you, my queenlet; they would 
make a goddess of you,—the goddess Musidora. 
That would not sound so badly.” 

“Married to the god Fortunio, both before the 
mayor and in the Church of Olympus; else the some- 
what prudish divinities would refuse to receive me at 
their Wednesday or Friday evenings,” replied Musidora, 
laughing. 

Chatting thus, the two lovers re-entered the house. 

But what of Soudja-Sari? My curious, fair reader, 


I shall soon tell you something of her. 


XXI 


THE day passed like a lovely dream. Our two lovers 


enjoyed deeply each other’s beauty, and their rosy lips 


178 


and ae 


Copyright, 1901, by George D. Sproul 


The day passed like a lovely dream 


deseo ce oe oe oe oe oe fe eee ce oe ob co fe oe fe fo ee 
FORTUNIO 


were the charming cups in which they drank the heady 
wine of voluptuousness. “They kissed but once, but 
that kiss lasted until night. Musidora laid her burning, 
velvety cheek against Fortunio’s cool breast. She was 
drawn up on herself in an adorably infantile attitude, 
like a child that settles in its mother’s lap to sleep at 
ease. She closed her eyes, the lashes of which came 
down to the middle of her cheeks; then she raised 
them slowly to look at Fortunio. 

“Ah!” she said, after a mute contemplation, and 
pressing him to her breast with superhuman strength, 
“the day you cease to love me, I shall kill you.” 

“ Good!” said Fortunio to himself, “this is the one 
hundred and fifty-third woman who has said the same 
thing, and [ am still in pretty fair health. It will not 
prevent my enjoying life.” 

He felt the soft girdle which Musidora had bound 
around his body suddenly relax. He looked at her and 
saw her pale,—her head thrown back nervously, her 
teeth clenched, her lips colourless, as if she were 
plunged in a paroxysm of rage. 

“The devil!” said Fortunio. ‘Can she be seri- 
ous? ‘These little, delicate, frail demons are capable 


of anything. ‘This promises to be amusing, After all, 


170 


cheba abe obe obs abe aba obe ae abe ode ocda be cto dace abe bach cde oe doe 


FORTUNIO 

it is a pretty death, I do not care for any other. No 
one yet has loved me enough to kill me. It would 
be rather strange if, after having weathered all the 
storms of Indian and tropical passions, I should have 
my throat neatly cut by a fair, clean little Parisian 
who is just about strong enough to fight a duel with 
an insect.” 

“¢ In that case, my queen,” he said aloud, “ you have 
just signed my warrant for eternal life. I shall grow 
older than Methuselah and Melchisedec.”’ | 

“So you will always love me?” said Musidora, with 
a long and voluptuous kiss. 

“© Assuredly. When one loves, it is forever, other- 
wise what is the good of loving? Does not the infinite 
involve eternity. I shall adore you in this world and 
in the next, if there be one, and there must be one 
expressly for that purpose. Love has scores of eterni- 
ties at its disposal.” 

‘Oh, you wicked railer, who believe in nothing!” 
said Musidora with a charming pout. 

“J? I believe in everything. 1 believe in the 
charity of philanthropists, in the virtue of women, in 
the good faith of journalists, in the epitaphs on tomb- 


stones,—in everything which is most unbelievable. 


180 


FORTUNIO 


I wish there could be four persons in the Trinity so 
that my faith might be more meritorious.” 

“ You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir; you are 
an atheist, which is very bad form,” answered Musi- 
dora, playing with the amulet that sparkled on For- 
tunio’s neck. 

‘© An atheist ? Nay, I have three gods: gold, beauty, 
and happiness. I am at least as pious as pius 4neas of 
blessed memory.” 

“Then believe in God; it can do no harm, as old 
women say when they propose a remedy for headache 
or toothache.”’ 

“¢ Now, look here, heart of mine, are we going to 
talk theology? I would rather dine and take you to 
the Opera. I have got to present you to the world. 
Let us sit down to table and then go.” 

“© How can I go, dressed like this, Fortunio ?” 

~“ We will call at your house, and you can put on 
another gown.” 

After the dinner, which was no less sumptuous than 
heretofore, the handsome couple got into the carriage. 
Musidora stopped at her house and put on a lovely 
dress. ‘Through a childish caprice, she wore white 


from head to foot like a young bride. ‘The sweet, 


181 


ktbettbreteteeddtttetetes 
FORTUNIO 


virginal expression of her face, illumined by deep 
internal felicity, admirably harmonised with her 
dress. 

Fortunio, divining the intention which had suggested 
the choice of the dress, drew from a small box of red 
morocco which he had in his pocket, a necklace of 
perfectly round pearls, and earrings and bracelets, also 
of pearls, of inestimable value. 

“This is my wedding present, Marchioness. You 
must put on the earrings and bracelets and the neck- 
lace. And now, my Infanta, you are perfect, and I 
will wager that to-night twenty women burst with 
jealousy. You will cause many a jaundice, and more 
than one lover will be treated like a negro in con- 
sequence of the ill-temper which you will certainly 
excite in the feminine camp.” 

When Musidora appeared in her box with Fortunio, 
a wave of admiration swept through the hall and the 
audience very nearly broke out into applause. Phoebe, 
who was in a stage-box with Alfred, turned as pale as 
the moon when rises the sun; the skin of Arabella, 
who was after Fortunio’s heart, was marked with yel- 
low lines as if her gall had burst, and the violence 


of her emotion was so great that she nearly fainted. 


182 


=~ ——s 


ne 


thtttbebebtebebbebbet hes 
BOR eUN TO 


As for Cynthia the Roman, she smiled gently, and 
between the acts came with Phoebe to call on 
Musidora. 

“You are so like a bride that you might be taken 
for one,” said Phoebe with a constrained look and a 
venomous smile. 

“Tam,” said Musidora, “ for yesterday I was mar- 
ried to the dream of my heart.” 

“<] thought so,” said Cynthia. ‘ Never did a no- 
vena with a three-pound candle fail to produce its 
effect. My Madonna is worth a great deal more than 
all your rough, bearded saints.” 

“© Madam,” said George, who entered the box; 
“‘ permit me to present my respects to you, if there is 
any room for them. ‘The carriage is yours. When 
am I to send it to you?” 

‘Thank you, George, Fortunio has forestalled you.” 

“ Well, Fortunio,’ went on George, “ have you just 
come back from Calcutta or from hell? Perhaps it 
was there that Musidora met you. She is on ex- 
cellent terms with the devil.” 

‘© No, I have come back in the most commonplace 
way from Neuilly, like a constitutional monarch. 


Have you had Cynthia framed? ”’ 
183 


LEEAEALELEPLAAALALLLELAE LES 
FORTUNIO 


The Roman girl made a silent negative sign. 
Phoebe, bending by Fortunio’s ear, informed him 
that Cynthia was in love with a sort of bravo, half 
swashbuckler, half fencing-master, six feet tall, with 
black whiskers and three rows of teeth like a crocodile, 
and that she wasted all her money upon him. 

“¢ Just like her,”’ whispered Fortunio. 

While this conversation was going on in Fortunio’s 
box, Alfred, left alone, was gazing at Musidora through 
his glasses. 

“ Decidedly,” he said to himself, ‘I shall begin to 
pay court to Musidora,— Pheebe is too cold. It would 
be in the best of taste to supplant Fortunio, with his 
fine, satrap-like airs. It would be a brilliant deed, and 
would restore my reputation as a lady-killer, which 
needs to be revived, for I cannot conceal from myself 
the fact that I have missed three women. How the 
devil can Fortunio meet all the expenses he indulges 
in? ‘There is something queer about it. He is not 
known to own a single foot of land. Strange! very 
strange! excessively strange indeed! But I shall 
fathom the mystery, and I shall possess Musidora.” 

Alfred, having come to this praiseworthy deci- 


sion, felt much satisfied with himself, and repeatedly 


184 


SEELELLAALALAALL LA LAL ELSE 
FORTUNIO 


passed his white-gloved hand through his curled hair with 


the most satisfied and victorious look in the world. 


XXII | 
Fortunio had allowed himself to share Musidora’s 
passion. True love is as contagious as the plague. 
Scoffer and sceptic though he appeared to be, he did 
not suffer from the hardness of heart which is the 
result of too precocious and too easy enjoyment. He 
hated worse than death the grimaces of sensibility, and 
could not be seduced by mincing airs; hypocrisy in 
love revolted him more than any other. On the other 
hand, he was touched by the least mark of true affec- 
tion and would not have treated harshly a ragged beg- 
gar or a mangy dog that exhibited real affection for him. 
Although his vast wealth made it easy for him to obtain 
possession of all brilliant and splendid realities, the 
little blue flower of artless love softly bloomed in a 
corner of his heart. A seraglio of two hundred women 
and the favours of all the handsome courtesans of the 
world had in no wise caused him to become Dlasé. 
He was more of a roué than an octogenarian diplomat, 
yet more candid than Cherubino at his godmother’s 


feet. He would have led the life of a Don Juan, yet 


185 


bhbbh bbb bbe ebeteeteees 
FOR Ff UNTO 


have enjoyed walking with a boarding-school girl, and 
wearing an apple-green satin vest on the banks of the 
Lignon. He calmly yielded to the strangest contra- 
dictions and cared nothing at all for logic. His pas- 
sions led him where they chose, without his ever 
attempting to resist them. He was good in the 
morning and wicked at night, and oftener good than 
wicked, for he was in sound health. He was hand- 
some and rich, and naturally inclined to consider the 
world well ordered; but unquestionably, whatever his 
temper might be, he was what he seemed to be. He 
could perfectly well understand the most opposite things ; 
he was equally fond of scarlet and of sky-blue, but he 
hated the phraseology of novels and fashionable jargon, 
and what had chiefly captivated him in Musidora was 
that she had given herself to him without a word. 
Society talked of nothing but the victory won by 
Musidora over the shy and reserved Fortunio, who 
had become so singularly tame. The little, green- 
eyed Parisian kitten had mastered the Indian tiger ; 
she had caged him in her love, the imperceptible wires 
of which were more solid than iron bars. She seemed 
to have completely fascinated him, and poor Soudja-Sari 


must have been greatly neglected ; Musidora’s tender- 


186 


POR ON I @ 


ness triumphed over her beauty. Fortunio behaved 
with her more as a European than he had done with 
any other woman since his arrival in France. He 
went to see her every day, and spent sometimes whole 
weeks without leaving her. Fortunio the Sultan had 
assumed the manners of Amadis; a princess could not 
have been adored more profoundly nor respected more 
humbly, yet occasionally he had very marked fits of 
relapses into Asiatic ferocity; the tiger’s claws showed 
sharp and menacing from out the velvet of his paws. 

One night when he was with her an extraordinary 
idea came into his mind. He rose, dressed, took the 
lamp, which he placed near the fringes of the curtains, 
and set fire to them with the greatest coolness ; then 
he entered the next room and did the same there. 
The great tongues of flame were already blackening 
the ceiling, and a dazzling light penetrated the sleeping 
eyes of Musidora. She awoke, and seeing her room 
full of fire and smoke, uttered a cry of terror. 

‘¢ Fortunio! Fortunio! save me! ” 

Fortunio was standing quietly leaning against the 
mantel-piece, watching the progress of the fire with 
an air of satisfaction. 


“T am stifling!” said Musidora, springing from the 


187 


Seiccheebeeeeeheeeeee eee 
FORTUNIO 


bed and running to the door. ‘ But what are you 
doing, Fortunio, and why don’t you call for help?” 


99 


“It is too late,” replied he; and taking up Musidora 
like a little child, he rolled her up in a blanket and 
carried her away. 

The unbearable, suffocating heat would have made 
the passage through the suite of rooms which com- 
posed the apartment difficult and perilous to a man 
less agile and less vigorous than Fortunio. In a few 
bounds he reached the last door, went down the stairs 
with the swiftness of a bird, opened the outer door for 
himself, for it would have taken too long to waken the 
porter buried in drunkenness and sleep, and entered 
with his precious burden a carriage that seemed to be 
awaiting him. He sat down, placed Musidora on his 
knee, and the carriage drove off. 

The flames had broken through the windows, and 
the smoke poured out in dense clouds; the whole 


{22 


household was at last awake, and cries of “ Fire!” re- 
peated in every key, were heard from one end of the 
street to the other. Sparks flew up and scintillated 
like golden spangles against the red background of the 
conflagration. It looked like a magnificent aurora 


borealis. 


188 


eee 


tttebtbttdttttbttdtettttitctet 
FORTUNIO 


“T wager Jack will not wake until he is quite 
cooked,” said Fortunio, laughing. 


Musidora did not reply. She had fainted. 


XXIII 


WHEN she regained her senses, she found herself lying 
on a bed at once elegant and simple. Fortunio was 
seated by her side. 

The interior of the room was most charming and 
coquettish. The furniture betokened an _ exquisite 
taste. It was not that regal and almost insolent 
luxury which dazzles more than it charms, but 
a sweet, chastely diaphanous luxury which satisfied 
the soul even more than the eye. The upholsterer 
who had designed the room must have been a great 
poet: it was Fortunio. 

‘© What do you think of this little nest? Is it to 
your taste?” 

“ Quite,” replied Musidora; ‘ but to whom does 
this house belong? Where am I?” 

“That is a foolish question. You are at home.” 

“ At home! ” said Musidora, astonished. 


‘Yes, I bought this house, for I intended to burn 


189 


Phebe ebebbbetebeeteteees 
FORTUNIO 


yours,” replied Fortunio carelessly, as if he had said the 
most natural thing in the world. 
“What! It was you who set fire to my house?” 
“¢] wisely considered that the fire would not break 
out of itself, so I set it.” 
“¢ Are you mad, Fortunio, or making fun of me?” 
“Neither. Have I said anything nonsensical? The 
architecture of your building was of the Doric order, 
which is particularly abhorrent to me, — and then —” 
“ And then what? That is a nice reason to set fire 


> 


to a whole quarter perhaps,” said Musidora, seeing that 
Fortunio had stopped in the middle of his sentence. 

‘‘ And then,’ went on Fortunio, whose complexion 
had assumed a greenish tinge, and whose eyes had 
lighted up. “I would not see you longer in a house 
which had been given you by another and where others 
had possessed you. It made me ill; I hated every 
arm-chair, every piece of furniture as if it had been my 
mortal foe, for in each I saw a kiss or a caress. I 
could have stabbed your sofa as if it had been a man. 
Your rings, your dresses, your gems, produced on me 
the same cold and venomous sensation as the touch of 
a serpent’s skin. Everything in your house recalled to 


me thoughts that I wanted to drive away forever ; 


190 


che oh obe che be oh che be ch ch cbc cbedecbe obec ob obob hohe 
FORTUNIO 


but they returned more importunate and more obstinate 
than swarms of wasps, and drove into my heart their 
poisoned stings. You cannot imagine with what 
vengeful satisfaction I saw the flames lick up those 
impure draperies, which had before my day cast their 
perfidious, soft light upon so many voluptuous scenes. 
How madly the fire embraced the hated walls, and how 
well it seemed to share my fury! Honest fire, which 
purifies everything! Thy rain of sparks, of burning 
flame, fell upon me fresher than the dew of a May 
morning, and | felt the peace of my heart renewed as 
under a beneficent shower. Now there cannot be a sin- 
gle wall left standing; all has fallen or is ruined; there 
is nothing left but a mass of ashes and coals. I breathe 
more freely, I feel my breast dilate. But you still 
wear that wrapper, more odious than Dejanira’s robe. 
I must tear it into a thousand pieces and trample it 
under foot as if it were living.” And Fortunio tore 
off the wrapper, threw it upon the ground, and trampled 
upon it with the mad rage of a bull which tosses 
with its horns the scarlet banner abandoned by the 
chulos. ? 

Musidora, terrified by this wild-beast-like madness, 


had curled herself up under her blanket, her arms 


1gI 


tt¢e¢e¢e¢e¢te¢tetetetteeettetse 
FOR DIN TD ® 


crossed on her bosom, and awaited with mute anxiety 
the close of this strange scene. 


“Ah! I should like to flay you alive,’ 


> 


said For- 
tunio, drawing near the bed. 

The girl was terrified for a moment lest he should 
carry out his intention; but the young: and ill-tamed 
jaguar continued thus : — 

“Your soft, satin skin, on which your lovers’ lips, 
swollen by debauch, have been pressed, —I could tear 
it from your body with delight. I wish no one had 
ever seen you, touched you, or heard you; I could 
break the mirrors in which your image has been 
reflected for a few seconds. I am jealous of your 
father, for his blood is in your body, and flows freely 
through the lovely network of your veins; I am 
jealous of the air you breathe, and which seems to 
kiss you; of your shadow, which follows you like a 
tender lover. I must have your whole life, past, pres- 
ent, and future. I do not know why I refrain from 
killing George and de Marcilly, and having Willis dug 
up to throw his body to the dogs.” 

While thus speaking, Fortunio roamed around the 
room like one of those lean wolves wnich may be seen 


in menageries moving around their cage and rubbing 


192 


che ce che ofa obs ofl ells ale cle aly abn abn oe ole ole cle obs obs cbr obe oly lr cfe 
FORTUNIO 


their black noses against the bars. He was silent, 
raged round the room a few times more, and then fell 
upon his face on the bed, weeping bitterly. The storm 
which had begun with thunder was turning into rain. 
“You madman! How is it you do not feel that I 


> 


have never loved any one but you,” said Musidora, 
taking his head and drawing it to her heart. ‘* Oh, my 
beloved! I was born on the day I found you. My 
life dates from the day of our love. Why should you 
be jealous of Musidora? You know very well that she 
is dead. Are you not my god, my maker, have you 
not made me out of nothing? Why should you tor- 
ment yourself?” 

‘“¢ Forgive me, my angel, I was brought up very close 
to the sun, in a land of fire. I go to extremes in 
everything, and my passions roar in my soul as lions in 


their dens. But it is striking three o’clock. Close 
g 


your eyes, my little crocodile, — go to sleep, Miss.” 


XXIV 


I PROMISED my fair readers to discover Soudja-Sari, the 
Javanese beauty with the languorous eyes. As she now 
happens to be the oppressed heroine, since Fortunio 


loves Musidora, interest naturally is concentrated upon 


v3 193 


LLAELAEALLALLAELALLLAL ALE LAS 
FORTUNIO 


her. But it was rash of me to make a promise so diffi- 
cult to fulfil. I have no means of finding Soudja-Sari 
other than to follow Fortunio, and how am I going to 
follow on foot a young fellow drawn by thorough-bred 
horses ? And besides, have I the right to spy upon my 
hero? Is it decent to insinuate myself thus into the 
secrets of a well-bred man? Is it his fault that I have 
taken him for the hero of my tale? ‘There are so 
many others who are glad enough to print their private 
correspondence. 

Yet at any cost I must find Soudja-Sari, the beauty 
with the languorous eyes. I here renounce all the 
artifices usually employed by novelists to excite and 
create interest, and being warned, besides, that it will 
soon be time to write the glorious word “Finis,” I 
proceed to betray Fortunio’s secret. 

As I have said, Fortunio was brought up in India by 
his uncle, a nabob enjoying untold wealth. After his 
uncle’s death he came to France, bearing with him 
enough to purchase a kingdom. One of his greatest 
pleasures was to mingle barbaric and civilised life, to be 
at one and the same time a satrap and a dandy, Beau 
Brummel and Sardanapalus; he enjoyed having one 


foot in India and the other in France. 


194 


re TT 


cheb abe oboe by abe cbr abe ae ace ol ob cao be oe ob oe obs cfoofe 
HO Reis UNIT © 


To carry out this double purpose, this is what he had 
done. He had purchased, in a very retired quarter of 
Paris, a whole block of houses, the centre of which’ 
was filled with great gardens. He had torn down all 
the inner buildings, and had left to his block of houses 
merely a thin crust of facades. All the windows 
looking upon the gardens had been carefully walled 
up, so that it was impossible to perceive from any side 
the buildings erected by Fortunio unless one passed 
overhead in the car of a balloon. Four houses, one at 
each corner of the block, served as entrances. Long, 
vaulted passages led to them and afforded communica- 
tion with the outer world without exciting suspicion. 
Fortunio went out and came in sometimes through one, 
sometimes through another, so as not to be noticed. 
A dealer in provisions, the back of whose shop com- 
municated with the buildings, and who was merely a 
devoted servant of Fortunio’s, enabled provisions to 
be brought in in a natural and plausible manner. 

It was in that unknown palace, more undiscoverable 
than El] Dorado sought by Spanish adventurers, that 
Fortunio disappeared in the mysterious way which so 
greatly excited his friends’ curiosity. There he spent 


a week, a fortnight or a month, as his fancy dictated, 


195 


FOR TU NUS 


without showing outside. “Che workmen employed in 
erecting the building had been richly compensated for 
keeping the secret, but had been scattered in different 
parts of the globe; not one of them had been left in 
Paris. Fortunio had sent them off without their being 
aware of the fact, some to America, others to India 
and Africa; he had proposed to them wonderful oppor- 
tunities of bettering their lot, which seemed to arise 
fortuitously and of which they had been completely the 
dupes. 

El Dorado, the golden palace, as Fortunio baptised 
it, did not belie its name. Gold shone in it every- 
where, and Nero’s Golden House assuredly could not 
have been more magnificent. 

Imagine a vast court surrounded by spiral columns 
of white marble with gilded capitals and shafts, en- 
twined with a vine, also gilded, the grapes formed of 
rubies. Into this quadruple portico opened the exqui- 
sitely carved cedar doors of the apartments. From the 
centre of the court plunged down four porphyry stairs, 
with balustrades and landings, leading to a basin, the 
sparkling, deep water of which could be lowered to the 
lowest steps or raised to the level of the ground, 


according to the depth desired. ‘The rest of the space 


196 


Bote chee ce he oe oh oh ale hole oo che doe he choc 


PORN. O 


was filled with orange-trees, tulip-trees, yellow-flowered 
angsokas, palms, aloes, and all manner of tropical plants 
growing in the open ground. . In order to make this 
wonder intelligible, I add that E] Dorado was a palace 
under glass. Fortunio, who was as chilly as a Hindoo, 
had, in order to secure an atmosphere such as he liked, 
first caused to be built a vast hot-house which com- 
pletely enclosed his wondrous nest. A glass vault 
replaced the sky; and yet he did not lack rain. on 
that account. When he wished to change the “set 
fair’? of his crystalline atmosphere, he ordered rain, 
and rain at once fell. Invisible tubes full of holes 
poured down a shower of fine pearls upon the leaves, 
fan-shaped or quaintly cut, of his virgin forest. 

Thousands of humming-birds and birds of paradise 
flew freely in the vast cage, shining in the air like 
winged, living flowers. Peacocks with lapis-lazuli 
necks and ruby aigrettes proudly dragged their starry 
tails over the sward. 

A second court contained the lodgings of the slaves. 

An inevitable disadvantage of the building was that 
it had no view. Fortunio, who had a very inventive 
mind and who was never put out by anything, had 


remedied this. The windows of his drawing-room 


197 


kebbb bbe ee eteddkhd ht dhe test 


FORTUNIO 


looked out upon dioramas painted in marvellous fash- 
ion, and causing the most perfect illusion. One day 
it was Naples with its blue sea, its amphitheatre of 
white houses, its volcano crowned with flames, its 
golden, flowery islands; another day it was Venice, 
with the marble domes of San Giorgio, the Dogana, or 
the Ducal Palace; or else, if my Lord Fortunio hap- 
pened to be in a pastoral mood, a Swiss view; but usu- 
ally Asiatic prospects, Benares, Madras, Mazulipatam, 
and other picturesque places. His valet would enter 
his room in the morning and say, ‘* What country 
will you have to-day, sir?” 

“© What have you ready?” Fortunio would answer. 
“< Tet me see the list.” 

The valet would hold out to Fortunio a mother-of- 
pearl notebook on which the names of the landscapes 
and cities were carefully engraved. Fortunio marked 
a view which he had not yet seen or which he desired 
to enjoy again, just as if he were ordering an ice. 

He enjoyed life there like a rat in a Dutch cheese, 
indulging in all the refinements of Asiatic luxury, 
waited on by slaves on bended knee, adored like a 
god, beheading with a perfect dexterity, that would 


have done honour to a Turkish executioner, those 


198 


FORTUNIO 


who displeased him or served him awkwardly. The 
bodies were thrown into a well filled with quicklime 
and at once destroyed. But for some time past, no 
doubt influenced by European ideas, he had more rarely 
indulged in this sort of pleasure, unless he were drunk 
or sought to distract Soudja-Sari. 

Before entering El Dorado he threw off his fashion- 
able clothes and resumed his Indian dress: a gown 
and turban of gold-flowered muslin, slippers of 
yellow morocco, and a creese with diamond-studded 
handle. 

None of the Hindoos, men or women, who were 
shut up in the splendid prison, knew a word of French, 
and they were all perfectly ignorant of the part of the 
world in which they happened to be. Neither Soudja- 
Sari, his favourite, nor Rima-Pahes, who draped herself 
in her long black hair as in a jet mantle, nor Koukong- 
Alis, with the rainbow-like eyebrows, nor Sicara with 
the flower-like mouth, nor Cambana, nor Keni-Tam- 
bouhan suspected that they were in Paris, for a very 
good reason, — they did not even know of the exist- 
ence of that city. Thanks to this ignorance, Fortunio 
governed his little world as despotically as if he had 
been in the very depths of the Indies. 


na 


PORT UAaN TO 


He would spend whole days in perfect immobility, 
seated upon a pile of cushions, his feet resting upon 
one of his women, following with a careless glance the 
blue spirals of smoke that rose from his hookah. He 
plunged with delight into the voluptuous state of stupor 
so dear to Orientals, and which is the greatest happi- 
ness that one can taste on earth, since it consists of 
perfect forgetfulness of all human affairs. Dreamy, 
vague reveries caressed his bent brow with the soft 
down of their wings; brilliant mirages shimmered 
before his half-closed eyes. From the broad calyx 
of the great Indian flowers, natural urns and scent~ 
boxes, rose wild, penetrating perfumes, strong, bitter 
scents capable of intoxicating like wine or opium. 
Jets of rose water sprang as high as the carved lintels 
of the arcades, and fell in showers of spray within 
their rock-crystal basins with melodious murmur; to 
crown all this magnificence, the sun, illumining the 
glass vault, gave to the golden palace a diamond sky. 
It was the realisation of a fairy tale. Within it one 
was two thousand miles from Paris, in the recesses 
of the Orient, in the very depths of the ‘“ Thousand 
and One Nights;” and yet the muddy, vile, noisy 


street roared and swarmed within a few steps; the 


200 


teeebetetetetetetctcecetes 
FORTUNIO 


dim light of the lamp of the Commissary of Police 
swung from the end of a post in the fog; the book- 
sellers sold the five Codes, with their edges of vari- 
ous colours; the Constitutional Charter opened its 
tricoloured flowers in the shape of cockades; the 
atmosphere of hydrogen gas and molasses characteristic 
of civilisation was breathed by passers-by who waded 
through a slough of muddiest roads. Noise, smoke, 
rain, ugliness, wretchedness, yellow faces under a gray 
sky, —in a word, the hideous, ignoble Paris which you 
all know. 

But on the other side of the wall a little sparkling, 
warm, golden, harmonious, scented world ; a world of 
women, birds, and flowers; an enchanted palace which 
Fortunio the wizard had known how to make invisible 
in the very centre of Paris, a city not favourable to 
prodigies ; a poet’s dream carried out by a poetic mil- 
lionaire, who is as rare as a millionaire poet, blooming 
like a marvellous flower of Arabian tales. On one 
side work, with its bare, blackened arms, its breast 
heaving like a blacksmith’s bellows ; on the other, soft 
leisure carelessly leaning on its elbow; delicate idlesse 
with its white, frail hands, recovering during the day 


from the fatigue of having slept all night; the most 


201 


de dlo cde te de che dh oh de he cheek dedboch habe che chool abe chock 


wre ee oTe OVO oTe OO ere eTe ere 


FORT UNTO 


perfect quietness by the side of the most feverish 
agitation; a complete antithesis. 

In this way did Fortunio lead a double life, enjoying 
both Asiatic and Parisian luxury. His mysterious 
retreat was a poetic nest where from time to time he 
indulged in his dreams. “There were his only loves, 
for he could not put up with European manners and 
the constant mingling of the sexes. He was inclined 
to the opinion of the Sultan Schariar, that nothing was 
pleasanter than to buy a young maid and to have her 
beheaded after the first night. This simple plan pre- 
vented any possible treachery. He did not, however, 
carry his jealous precautions so far, though he felt it im- 
possible to love any woman who had had another lover. 
Undoubtedly, if he had ever married, he would never 
have wedded a widow. Musidora was the only woman 
with whom he had carried on an intrigue so long; he 
had yielded to the penetrating charm, to the transcend- 
ent coquetry, and especially to the true love of the girl. 
The warm flame of her passion had softened his heart ; 
he loved her, and yet he was unhappy for the first time 
in his life. Unbearable remembrances harried his 
soul, and in the midst of the sweetest kisses he tasted 


hideous bitterness: he always remembered that she 


202 


ktteetbetettettetbbbbbod 
FORTUNIO 


had been possessed by others. His power for once 
failed him; he could not wipe away the former life 
of Musidora and purify her, and the thought clung 
to him like a vulture. He was so accustomed to 
exclusive possession that he found it difficult to under- 
stand that there were other men in the world besides 
himself. When anything reminded him that others 
could have been loved as he was, he entered into fiend- 
ish rages and would have torn lions in twain, so trans- 
ported was he by fury. At such times he felt an irre- 
sistible need to mount on horseback, to leap into a 
crowd, and with great sword-cuts to slash off arms, legs, 
and heads. He uttered dreadful howls, and rolled on 
the ground like a madman. It was in one of these fits 
of jealous rage that he had set fire to Musidora’s house. 
But for this, he was as impassible as an old ‘Turk; had 
the lightning fallen and lighted his pipe, he would not 
have expressed the least surprise. He feared neither 
God nor devil, death nor life, and he was possessed of 
the finest coolness in the world. 
Fortunio, spellbound by the enchanter Musidora, had 
appeared only at rare intervals in El Dorado; for 
nearly a week he had not set foot in it. A crushing 


weariness weighed down upon the glass sky of that little 


203 


oe a 


deo ch beh dh db ck hh abba abch bob bbe 
FORTUNIO 


world the sun of which was hidden. As none of the 
inhabitants of El Dorado knew where he was, any 
conjectures as to the motives which kept him away were 
impossible. They did not know whether he was ele- 
phant hunting or making war against a rajah. Brought 
directly from India without having landed, they did 
not suppose that the manners of the country in which 
they were differed in any respect from the manners 
of Benares or Madras. 

Soudja-Sari, restless and sad, lived withdrawn within 
her apartment with her women. It is to be regretted 
that none of our painters ever saw Soudja-Sari, for she 
was the daintiest and loveliest creature imaginable, and 
words, however well combined, give but an imperfect 
idea of a woman’s beauty. 

Soudja-Sari might have been thirteen years of age, 
though she seemed to be fifteen, so well formed was 
she and so delicately full were her contours. A single 
pale, warm tone spread from her brow to her feet; her 
skin, mat and pulpy like a camellia leaf, was softer to 
the touch than the internal membrane of an egg; cer- 
tain transparent forms of amber could alone give an 
idea of her colour. It is difficult to imagine anything 


more piquant than the blond fairness of her virgin body 


204 


deol he dob cbc ches ach chee chebech cheb 
FORTUNIO 


covered with a thick mantle of hair as black as night, 
falling straight from her head to her heels. The roots 
of her hair, planted in the golden skin of her brow, 
formed a sort of charmingly quaint bluish penumbra. 
The long black eyes, rising slightly toward the temples, 
were full of inexpressible voluptuousness and languor, 
and the eyeballs passed from one side to the other with 
an irresistibly sweet, harmonious movement. Soudja- 
Sari was well named. When her velvet glance rested 
upon you, you felt in your heart an infinite idlesse, a 
calm full of freshness and perfume, a sort of joyful 
melancholy. The will yielded, projects vanished like 
smoke, and one desired only to remain forever lying 
at her feet; all things seemed useless and vain, and 
naught on earth worth doing save to love and sleep. 
Yet Soudja-Sari had violent passions, as violent as the 
perfumes and poisons of her native country. 

Her fine, delicate nose, her blooming lips red like 
the cactus flower, her broad hips, her small feet and 
hands, — all marked her as thorough-bred and remark- 
ably strong. 

Fortunio had purchased her when she was nine years 
old, paying three oxen for her. She had had no diff- 


culty in emerging from the crowd of beauties in his 


205 


kebbeeeeeeeeeetteettetes 
FORTUNIO 


seraglio and becoming his favourite. Fortunio, no 
doubt, had not been faithful to her; that was impos- 
sible with his ideas and in view of Oriental manners, 
but he had always remained constant. Never until he 
had met Musidora had he felt for any one such quick 
and passionate desire, and the kitten with the sea-green 
eyes was the only woman that had ever rivalled Soudja- 
Sari’s face in my hero’s heart. 

Seated on a carpet, Soudja-Sari was looking at her- 
self in a little mirror made of specular iron with a 
handle of exquisitely chased gold. Four women, 
kneeling around her, were tressing her hair which they 
had divided among themselves, and in which they 
plaited golden threads. A fifth, seated farther away 
was gently tickling her back with a little hand of 
carved jade set at the end of an ivory wand. 

Keni-l'ambouhan and Koukong-Alis drew from 
cedarwood chests—the wardrobes of our princess 
—gowns and precious stuffs: black satins covered 
with fanciful flowers, the pistils formed of peacocks’ 
aigrettes and the petals of butterflies’ wings; brocades 
with grainy woof starred and dotted with luminous 
points; light velvets; silks more changeable than the 


neck of dove or the fire opal; muslins ribbed with 


206 


KLELALALAE ALPES AAAS e ts 
FORE UNTO 


gold and silver and ornamented with elegant designs, — 
the wardrobe of a fairy or a peri. 

They spread all these splendours upon divans, so 
that Soudja-Sari may choose the robe she will wear 
that day. Rima-Pahes, whose long hair, tressed in 
Japanese fashion, is twisted around two golden pins 
with silver balls, kneels before Soudja-Sari and exhibits 
to her various gems contained in a small malachite 
coffer. But Soudja-Sari is uncertain; she does not 
know whether to take her chrysoberyl necklace or the 
azerodrach beads. She tries them in turn, and ends 
by choosing a small string of rose pearls, for which 
she soon substitutes three rows of coral. ‘Then, as if 
worn out by so much labour, she leans back upon the 
knees of one of her women and lets fall her arms, the 
palms open, turned upwards, like a person worn out 
by lassitude. She closes her eyelids fringed with long 
lashes, and lets her head fall backwards. The four 
slaves, who have not yet finished tressing, draw near so 
as not to pull her hair, but one of them not having 
been quick enough, Soudja-Sari utters a cry more shrill 
than the hissing of an asp which has been trodden upon, 
and sits up with an abrupt, quick motion. ‘The slave 


turns pale on seeing Soudja-Sari trying to draw from 


207 


tekbebtbbtttet td tdetdddtd dds 
FORTUNIO 


Rima-Pahes’ hair one of the long gold needles by which 
it is kept up; for one of the habits of the lady is to 
plant these pins in the breast of her women ‘when they 
do not fulfil their functions with all desirable light- 
ness. However, as the needle does not come out at 
once, Soudja-Sari resumes her nonchalant pose, and 
closes her eyes again. ‘The slave breathes once more, 
and Soudja-Sari’s toilet is completed without further 
incident. 

This is how she was dressed: A pair of very full 
trousers, with black stripes on a tawny gold ground, 
fell from her hips to just above her ankles. A sort 
of jacket or very narrow waist, resembling the strophia 
and the cestus of antiquity, fastened top and bottom by 
two jewelled clasps, set off the rich contours of her 
round brown breasts, the upper portion of which was 
seen through the opening of the garment. This vest 
was of gold stuff with figures and flowers embroidered 
in gems; the foliage with emeralds, the roses with 
rubies, the blue flowers with turquoises. It was sleeve- 
less, and showed the exquisite form of two lovely 
arms. ‘The piquancy and singularity of this Javanese 
costume was due to there being quite a space between 


the bust and the girdle, so that her dimpled hips, more 


208 


rhe he che te ctecde che obe teehee ta ete oe abe chock 
POR FEU NTO 


ie 
ie 
ie 
ie 
ie 
ie 
iS 


polished and shining than marble, and her supple loins, 
as shapely as those of a Greek statue of the finest 
period, were visible. 

Her hair was divided, as I have said, in four long 
tresses twined with gold threads, which fell down to 
her feet, two in front and two behind; a camboja 
flower bloomed on either side of her polished, transpar- 
ent temples, on which was a network of delicate veins 
similar to that on the temples of the portrait of Anne 
Boleyn, and on the tips of her pearly ears, exquisitely 
shaped, sparkled two scarabei, the golden-green wing- 
sheaths of which were coloured with all sorts of tints 
of unimaginable richness. A great scarf of Indian 
muslin, with a pattern of sprigs of flowers worked in 
gold, wound carelessly around her body, softened 
by its vapoury whiteness the over-brilliancy of the 
costume. Her feet were bare, each toe covered 
with diamond rings, and her ankles adorned with 
golden anklets. On her arms she wore three brace- 
lets, two close to the shoulder and the other on 
the wrist. 

In case she wished to walk and to go down to 
the garden,—a fancy that rarely seized her,—there 


was placed by the side of a divan a pair of slippers 


14 209 


bkketebeteteettettttttttts 
FORTUNIO 


wonderfully delicate and small, with the points curved 
inward after the Siamese fashion. 

Having finished dressing, she called for a pipe and 
began to smoke opium. Rima-Pahes dropped with a 
silver needle upon the porcelain mushroom the pastille 
which had been liquified in the flame of scented wood, 
while Keni-Tambouhan softly waved two great fans 
of the feathers of the Argus pheasant, and the beautiful 
Cambana, seated upon the ground, sang, accompanying 
herself on a guzla with three cords, the pantoum of the 
dove of Patani and the vultures of Bendam. 

The blue, aromatic smoke of the opium escaped in 
light puffs from Soudja-Sari’s red lips as she sank 
deeper and deeper in the delightful forgetfulness of all 
things. Rima-Pahes had already renewed the pastille 
six times. 

“¢ More,” said Soudja-Sari, in the imperious tone 
of a spoiled child who would be given the moon if it 
fancied it. 

“* No, mistress,” replied Rima-Pahes; “you know 
very well that Fortunio has forbidden your smoking 
more than six pipes.” And she went out, bearing 
with her the precious golden box that contained the 


voluptuous poison. 


ye Te) 


decoded chk ob bbb cha heb 
FORTUNIO 


‘You wicked Rima-Pahes, to take away my box of 
opium! [I wanted to sleep until my Fortunio returned. 
At least I should see him in my dreams. What is the 
use of being awake and alive when he is absent? 
Never did he stay away hunting so long. What can 
nave happened tohim?’ Perhaps he has been bitten by 
a serpent or wounded by a tiger.” 

“Not much!” said Fortunio, raising the portiére, 
“It is I who bite serpents and wound tigers.” 

At the sound of the well-known voice, Soudja-Sar 
rose from her divan and cast herself into Fortunio’s 
arms with a movement like that of a young fawn 
unexpectedly wakened. She passed her two hands 
around her lover’s neck and clung to his lips with the 
mad avidity of a traveller who has crossed the desert 
without quenching his thirst; she pressed him to her 
breast, wound around him like an adder; she seemed 
to desire to envelop him with her body at every point 
at once. 

“© Oh, my dear lord,” she said, seating herself on her 
knees; ‘if you only knew how much [I have suffered 
during your absence! You bore away my heart with 
your last kiss, and you did not leave me yours, wicked 


man! I was as one dead, or sunk in sleep. My tears 


211 


$tbbetttttbpttettttedbttsé 
FORTUNIO 


alone, falling in silent drops down my cheeks, proved 
that I still existed. When you are away, O Fortunio 
of my heart, it seems to me as though the sun had died 
out in the solitary heavens; the brightest light is as 
dark to me as the shadows of night; everything is 
solitary. You alone are light, motion, life! Without 
you nothing exists. Would I could melt and lose my- 
self in your life! Would I could be you to possess 
you more entirely |!” 

‘This young woman expresses herself very well in 
Hindustani. It is a pity she does not know French; 
she could write novels, and would be a very agreeable 
bluestocking,”’ said Fortunio to himself, as he untied 
Soudja-Sari’s tresses while playing with them. 

“Will my gracious sultan take a sherbet, chew 
betel, or drink arrack punch? Would he prefer pre- 
served Chinese ginger or a prepared nutmeg?” said 
the Javanese, raising her soft eyes to his face. 

“© Have everything brought in. I feel a regal desire 
to get horribly drunk. You, Keni-T’ambouhan, shall 
play on the tympanon; you, Cambana, shall work your 
claws upon your pumpkin with the broom-handle stuck 
in it; and the whole of you shall make noise enough 


to deafen the devil. It is long since I have enjoyed 


212 


ch che a be oe abe ote ob ote abe octet cto ob 


we Oe oe 


FOREUNTO 


1 
ie 
i 
i 
ib 
if 
i 
if 


C09 O10 vie @ we 


myself. Rima-Pahes, while I sing and drink, shall 
tickle the sole of my feet with a peacock’s feather ; 
Fatme and Zuleika shall dance, and afterwards we 
shall have a fight between a lion and a tiger. Every 
one who is not dead drunk within two hours shall be 
beheaded or impaled, as he or she pleases. I have 
spoken.” 

A swarm of little black, red, yellow, and piebald 
slaves arrived, bearing silver platters on their finger- 
tips and carved vases upon their heads. In three 
minutes everything was ready. 

Each group of women had its table, or rather its 
carpet, covered with bowls filled with preserves. “The 
service was carried on in Oriental fashion. From time 
to time Fortunio cast to these beauties dried fruit mixed 
with gold and silver almonds that contained some gem, 
and he laughed heartily at the efforts they made to 
seize them. Never did the eyes of the Greeks, who 
adored lovely forms, gaze upon more graceful athletes, 
or behold more beautiful bodies in more varied and happy 
attitudes. “he groups were admirable in their arrange- 
ment, interlaced like adders, and supple as Proteus. 

“Come!” said Fortunio to Koukong-Alis, “do not 


bite. Look at that little scorpion waving its claws! 


213 


eckecke desk ch eck ob dee cbech decheah abe cheebck oh ahh 
FORTUNIO 


If you make Sacara cry again, I will have you hung by 
the hair. Come here, Sacara; instead of one silver 
almond, you shall have a handful.” 

Sacara, smiling through her tears, cast a glance 
of triumph at Koukong-Alis, who remained gloomy 
and sombre in her place. Fortunio filled the fold of 
her dress with the precious fruit, kissed her, and made 
her sit down by him on the divan. 

The two almehs advanced, swaying their hips, and 
danced until they fell on the floor breathless and half 
dead. ‘The lion and the tiger fought with such fierce- 
ness that there was very little left of the pair. Arrack 
and opium performed their work so well that no one 
kept his or her senses beyond the prescribed time. 
Fortunio fell asleep on Soudja-Sari’s bosom. 

Musidora waited for him all night, and slept but 
little. 


XXV 


Ir would seem that Fortunio was very comfortable in 
his gilded nest, for Musidora waited for him in vain for 
a week. 

The cause of this sudden rupture was that Fortunio 


had recognised that there. existed between Musidora 


214 


abe ab abe abe obs beable abe abe abe cbncbe abe cta obo obecde cbr cde oe oe obec 
PORT ONT ® 


and him an inexhaustible source of bitterness. He 
thought her charming, clever, entirely worthy of being 
loved, but he could not forget the past; his retrospec- 
tive jealousy was always awake; he would have been 
miserable beyond conception without in the least con- 
tributing to Musidora’s happiness. He had made the 
greatest efforts to overcome the ever-present thought, 
but it always sprang up more venomous and obstinate. 
Feeling that the very efforts he made to forget com- 
pelied him to remember, he preferred to give up the 
useless struggle. If he had loved Musidora less, he 
would have kept her; he loved her too much to allow 
a secret thought to exist between them. With his 
firm character, he soon came to an irrevocable decision. 
Musidora received a letter containing an annuity of 
twenty-five thousand livres, together with a _ lock 
of Fortunio’s hair, and these words written in an 


unknown hand : — 


«¢ Mapam, — The Marquis Fortunio has just been killed 


in a duel. Remember him sometimes.’’ 


“Oh!” said Musidora, “he did not come, — so he 
must have been dead. [ had guessed it. But I shall 


not long survive him.” And without shedding a tear, 


215 


 TORTUSEO. 


she fetched the pocket-book in which was the poisoned 
needle that Fortunio had taken from her at the begin- 
ning of their loves, mistrusting her impulsive character, 
and which she had found forgotten at the bottom of a 
casket. 

“‘ It was a fatal omen, and chance was clear-sighted 
when it made me find an instrument of death where I 
looked only for love letters and a means of beginning a 
frivolous intrigue.” 

With these words she kissed the lock of Fortunio’s 
hair and pricked herself in the throat with the point of 
the needle. Her eyes closed, her rosy lips turned blue, 


a shudder shook her lovely frame. She was dead. 


XXVI 


“My pear Rapin Manrri,—I shall very shortly 
follow this letter. [I return to India, which I shall 
probably never leave again. 

“You may remember with what eagerness I desired 
to visit Europe, the country of civilisation, as it is 
called. Heaven forgive me! If I had known what 
it was, I should never have put myself out for it. 


‘‘At present I am in France, a wretched country, 


216 


ae 
ae a 


j 


and in Paris, a mean city. It is difficult to enjoy 
one’s self properly here. To begin with, it is always 
raining, and the sun only shines with a flannel vest and 
a cotton cap on, — it looks like an old fellow stiff with 
rheumatism. The trees have very small leaves, and 
only for three months. There is no hunting save 
rabbits, or at most, a few wretched wild boars, or 
wolves which have not the strength to devour a dozen 
peasants. — 

“©The men are horribly ugly, and the women — oh! 
ah! The rich people, or at least, those who claim to 
be so, have not even a twenty-five-franc piece in their 
pocket, and if when out driving it occurs to them to 
back their carriage into a shop-window, or to run over 
a fool or two, they are obliged to leave their hat in 
pledge or to go and borrow money from one of their 
friends. 

‘There is a certain class of young fellows who are 
called fashionables. ‘They lead the most curious life. 
The dress of the most elegant of them is not worth a 
thousand francs, and generally they are in debt for it. 
Their supreme refinement consists in wearing patent- 
leather boots and. white gloves. A pair of boots costs 


forty francs, a pair of gloves from three to five francs, 


217 


dedecbib cb bbc bbcbbabechch bec becbecke ob bk 
BP ORT UWNL.© 


— marvellous luxury, is it not? ‘Their clothes are 
made of cloth very like that worn by janitors, dealers 
in salads, and barristers; it is very difficult to tell a 
nobleman or a rich man’s son from a teacher of writing 
in twenty-four lessons. 

“« ‘These gentlemen dine in two or three cafés which 
are approved by fashion, where everybody can go, and 
where you run the risk of being seated at the same 
table as a writer of bad vaudevilles or of newspaper 
articles who has just received his month’s pay and 
proposes to make up for an eight-days’ fast. “The 
cafés are the worst eating-houses in the world. You 
cannot get anything in them. You call for a bison’s 
hump or an elephant’s foot, and the waiter looks at 
you amazed, as if you had said something extraordinary. 
Their turtle-soup rarely contains shells, and you cannot 
find in their cellars a single drop of genuine Tokay or 
Shiraz wine. 

‘After dinner, these fashionables go to a place 
called the Opera, a sort of barracks of wood and 
canvas, with faded gilding, and daubs like painted paper, 
sufficiently fine to exhibit acrobatic monkeys and 
learned asses in. It is considered good taste to sit in 


one of the oblong boxes which are close to four big 


218 


ch ooh abe abe obo ode abe abe rabecbe och abe ebe cde oa ob oe oo 
HOUR UNIO 


pillars in repulsive Corinthian style, and which are not 
even of marble. It is impossible to see anything from 
these boxes, and that is probably why they are more 
sought after than any others. I asked myself fre- 
quently what pleasure one experienced there. It seems 
that the amusement consists in watching the legs of 
the dancers. These legs are usually very poor and 
covered with stuffed tights. The rest of the time 
there is a great deal of noise which is called music. 
The play is always the same, and the lines are written 
by the worst poets to be found. 

“When there is no opera, you walk about with a 
cigar on the boulevard, which is not two hundred 
yards long, has no shadow, no coolness, and where you 
tread upon your neighbour’s feet. Or else you go to 
a party. 

“To go toa party is one of the most inexplicable 
pleasures of civilisation. This is it. You assemble 
four hundred people in a room where one hundred 
would be uncomfortable. “The men are dressed in 
black’ like undertakers; the women wear the most 
astonishing costumes possible, — gauze, ribbons, ears 
of corn in imitation gold, the whole business worth 


some fifteen francs. Their dresses, which are pitilessly 


219 


bebbbetbeetetettttttttts 
FORTUNIO 


cut low, exhibit unspeakably wretched contours. Every- 
body remains standing, stuck against the wall; the wo- 
men are seated separately. Nobody speaks to them 
excepting a few aged, bald, pot-bellied individuals. A 
piano, which is an execrable invention, piteously 
maunders in a corner, and the shrill singing of some 
famous singer rises from time to time above the low 
murmur of the assembly. Hostlers and porters dis- 
guised as lackeys bring in a few cakes and glasses 
of tasteless mixtures, at which everybody dashes with 
disgusting avidity. The people who are best off 
dance themselves, as if they could not afford to 
pay for dancers. 

““'You would be very much astonished, my good 
Radin Mantri, to see civilisation closer. It consists 
in having newspapers and railways. The newspapers 
are great, square pieces of paper which are scattered 
through the city in the morning. ‘They appear to have 
been printed with boot-blacking, and contain accounts 
of the events which have occurred in the city: dogs 
drowned, husbands beaten by their wives, and remarks 
on the condition of the cabinets of Europe, written by 
people who do not know how to write and whom one 


would not take for valets. 


220 


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‘ abs che abe obs abe obo obras cf nb che ohooh obo che he oh che cke 
F 


ORs UNI @ 


“The railways are grooves on which kettles gallop 
along, — a most entertaining spectacle ! 

‘“¢ Besides the newspapers and the railways, there 
is a sort of constitutional mechanism, with a king 
who reigns and does not govern. When the poor 
devil of a king needs a million, he is obliged to ask 
it of three hundred country louts who meet at the 
end of a bridge and talk the year through without 
paying any attention to what other speakers have 
said. A speech on molasses is replied to by a 
philippic on fresh-water fishing. That is the way 
Europeans live. 

‘© Their private manners are still more strange. 
You may call on their women at any hour of the 
day or night; they go to walk or to balls with the 
first comer; jealousy seems to be unknown to these 
people. 

“© The peers of France, generals, and diplomats gen- 
erally take for mistresses opera dancers as thin as 
spiders, who betray them in favour of wig-makers, 
machinists, writers, or negroes. ‘They know it very 
well, yet are not put out with them, — instead of 
having them sewn up in sacks and cast into the river, 


as would be proper. 


Z2i 


kttbtteeeeteetttttttttest 
FORTUNIO 


“© A singular and wide-spread taste among this people 
is love for old women. Almost all the actresses adored 
and run after by the public are at least sixty years of 
age. They have to be about fifty before any one finds 
out that they are pretty and have talent. 

““ As for the arts, their condition is far from being 
brilliant. All the fine pictures in the galleries are by 
old masters. There is, however, in Paris a poet 
whose name ends in go (Victor Hugo), who seems 
to me to do pretty good work,— but after all, I 
like King Soudraka, the author of ‘ Vasantesena,’ just 
as much. 

““[ have not enjoyed myself greatly in Europe. 
The only pleasant thing I have met with is a lit- 
tle girl called Musidora, whom I should have liked 
to carry off to put into my seraglio; but with her 
stupid European ideas she would have been very un- 
happy in it, and I hate nothing more than to see 
long faces. 

‘“¢ | shall start in a few days. I have chartered three 
vessels to carry away what is worth taking, and I shall 
burn the rest. El Dorado shall disappear like a 
dream, —- one or two barrels of powder will do the 


business. 


fap a8 3 


HLLDLEA LEAL ESE AAA ees 
EO Ree UNL © 


“« Farewell, old Europe, — old, though you think 
yourself young. Try to invent a steam engine to 
manufacture beautiful women, and to find a new gas to 
take the place of the sun. I am going to the East. It 


is simpler.” 


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One of Cleopatra’s Nights 


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BOUT nineteen hundred years ago a 
magnificent barge, gilded and painted, was 


flying down the Nile, impelled by fifty 


long, flat sweeps that rayed the surface of 
the water like the feet of a gigantic scarabzeus. “The 
barge, of slender proportions and admirably designed for 
speed, was long and narrow, and turned up at each end 
in the shape of the crescent of the young moon. ‘The 
ram’s-head surmounted by a gilded ball, placed at the 
point of the prow, denoted that the craft belonged to a 
personage of royal race. In the centre of the vessel 
rose a flat-roofed cabin, asort of maos or tent of hon- 
our, painted and gilded, with a palmetto moulding and 
four small, square windows. “Two cabins, also covered 
with hieroglyphs, were placed at each end of the cres- 
cent. One, larger than the other, had an upper story 


of less height, like the forecastle of the quaint galleys 


227 


LELLEEEE Eee ebebbeebeeeeds 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


of the sixteenth century drawn by Della Bella. The 
smaller, which was the pilot’s, ended in a triangular 
pediment. 

The rudder was formed of two huge sweeps fastened 
to posts painted with stripes, and showed in the wate 
behind the barge like the web feet of aswan. Heads 
wearing the pschent and having on the chin the alle- 
gorical beard, were carved on the handle-ends of these 
great sweeps, which were worked by the pilot standing 
on his cabin roof. 

The pilot was a dark-complexioned man, tawny 
like new bronze, with eyes slightly slanting at the outer 
corners, and full of bluish reflections, hair plaited into 
small cords, open mouth and prominent cheekbones, 
ears standing out from his head; in a word, a man of 
true Egyptian type. A narrow waistcloth wrinkling on 
his hips, and five or six strings of glass beads and amu- 
lets formed his costume. He appeared to be the only 
living person on the barge, for the rowers, bending to 
their sweeps and concealed by the plank-sheer, could 
only be guessed at by the symmetrical motion of the 
oars, which opened on either side of the barge like the 
leaves of a fan and struck the water after a slight 


pause. 


228 


$ete¢t¢e¢eetttetetttt ttt tee 
ONEV OF CLE ORATRA:S NIGHTS 


- There was not a breath of air, and the great tri- 
angular sail, furled and stopped with a silken cord 
around the mast, which had been unshipped, proved 
that all hope of seeing the wind rise had been given up. 
The noonday sun poured down in fiery beams; the 
ashen, dry mud on the river-bank reverberated the 
heat ; a crude, dazzling light, dusty, so intense was it, 
overspread everything with its torrents of flame; the 
blue sky whitened in the heat like metal in a furnace; 
a hot, dun mist smoked on the burning horizon. Not 
a cloud showed on the unchanging sky, as mournful as 
eternity. 

The water of the Nile, colourless and dead, seemed 
to sleep on its course, and spread out in sheets of 
molten tin. No breath rippled its surface, or bowed 
on their stems the flowers of the lotus, still as if carved 
out of stone. Only from time to time the leap of a | 
bechir or a fahaka made it sparkle like silver; the 
sweeps of the barge appeared to find it difficult to tear 
the dusky pellicle of the coagulated waters. 

The banks were deserted. Immense, solemn melan- 
choly brooded over the land, always a vast tomb, in 
which the living seemed to have no other occupation 


than to embalm the dead. An arid gloom, dry as 


229 


LKAELLALLALALLALP?LALL AALS LSA 
ONE.OF CLEOPATRA’S, NIGHiagS 


pumice stone, without softness or reverie, without a 
pearly gray cloud to watch on the horizon, without a 
secret spring in which to bathe its dusty feet; the 
gloom of a sphinx weary of gazing forever at the 
desert, but which cannot leave the granite pedestal on 
which it has been sharpening its claws for twenty 
centuries. 

The silence was so deep that it was as though the 
world had become mute or the air had lost the power 
of conveying sound. The only murmur heard was the 
low whisper and laugh of the crocodiles weltering in 
the heat and wallowing amid the river reeds; or else 
some ibis, tired of standing one leg under its wing and 
its neck sunk between its shoulders, abandoned its 
motionless pose, and suddenly striking the blue air with 
its white wings, flew away and perched upon an obelisk 
_ or a palm tree. 

The barge sped like an arrow over the water, leav- 
ing behind it a silver wake that soon was effaced; a 
few frothy bubbles breaking on the surface alone tes- 
tified to the passage of the craft, already out of sight. 
The river banks, yellow and salmon-coloured, unrolled 
rapidly like papyrus bands between the double azure of 


the heaven and the water, these so alike in tone that 


230 


LLEKE EEA epttett tet ttetese 
ONEMOL (CLEOBA TR A'S: NIGHTS 


the thin tongue of earth which separated them seemed a 
causeway built across an immense lake, and made it 
dificult to decide whether the Nile reflected the sky or 
the sky reflected the Nile. 

The prospect changed constantly. Sometimes gigan- 
tic propylza mirroring in the river their sloping walls 
covered with large panels containing quaint figures ; 
pylons with swelling capitals; stairways bordered by 
great crouching sphinxes wearing caps with fluted 
lapels and crossing their black basalt paws under their 
pointed breasts ; huge palaces, showing against the hori- 
zon the stern, horizontal lines of their entablatures, on 
which the emblematic disc opened its monstrous wings 
like an eagle with exaggerated spread of pinions; 
temples, with enormous columns the size of towers, 
against the dazzling white background of which stood 
out processions of hieroglyphic figures, — all the won- 
ders of the Titanic Egyptian architecture. Or again, 
a landscape desolate in its aridity: hills formed of small 
pieces of stone, the débris of excavations and construc- 
tions, crumbs of the gigantic granite debauch which had 
lasted for more than thirty centuries ; mountains exfoli- 
ated by the heat, cut and rayed by black stripes like the 


marks of a conflagration; deformed hillocks crouching 


AZT 


che ch ech fe be ohooh oe ce cece choco ce fee ood ofe cece 


ope efe we cto 


ONEVOF CELEOPATRA’S NGGHAS 


like the ram-headed sphinxes of the tombs and outlin- 
ing against the sky their grotesque shapes. Nor was 
the aridity tempered in any way. No oasis of foliage 
refreshed the glance; green seemed a colour unknown 
in nature. Here and there a slender palm blossomed on 
the horizon, a thorny cactus raised its leaves sharp as 
bronze swords, a carthamum, finding a little humidity 
in the shadow of a broken column, broke with its red 
dot the general monotony.. 

Having cast this rapid glance upon the landscape, let 
us return to the fifty-oared barge and enter straight into 
the naos of honour. ‘The interior of it was painted 
white with green arabesques, vermilion lines, and 
golden flowers of fantastic shape. A reed matting of 
extreme fineness covered the floor. At the end stood 
a sort of small bed with griffin’s feet, with the back up- 
holstered like a modern sofa or arm-chair, a footstool 
with four steps to ascend to it, and —a piece of refine- 
ment which strikes our ideas of comfort rather 
strangely —a sort of crescent of cedar wood mounted 
on a foot and destined to hold the neck and support 
the head of the sleeper. 

On this strange pillow rested a very (say Beate one 


glance of whose eyes had, wrought woe to half the 


232 


eeeeetedceeteetttetettee 
ON Bae Ory Ce OAT Rear SUN TGiBIVTaS 


world; a head adored and divine ; the head of the most 
perfect woman that ever existed, the most womanly 
and the most queenly; an admirable type to which 
poets have been unable to add and which dreamers 
always find at the end of their dreams. It was 
Cleopatra. 

Near her, Charmian, her favourite slave, waved a 
broad fan of ibis feathers. A little maid watered with 
scented water the small reed blinds hung across the 
windows of the zaos, in order that the air should enter 
only impregnated with coolness and perfume. 

Near the couch, in a vase of wavy alabaster with 
slender spout, its slight, graceful shape vaguely recall- 
ing the profile of a heron, was plunged a bouquet of 
lotus flowers, some of a celestial blue, others of a ten- 
der rose like the finger-tips of Isis the great goddess. 

Cleopatra on that day, either through caprice or 
policy, was not dressed in Greek fashion. She had 
just been present at the Panegyrics, and was returning 
to her summer palace in the Egyptian costume she had 
worn at the festival. My feminine readers may per- 
haps desire to know how Queen Cleopatra was dressed 
on her return from the Hammisi of Hermonthis, where 


is worshipped the trinity of the god Mandou, the god- 


SLAELAL ELAS ESAS ettttttesttse 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


dess Ritho and her son Harphre, and I cannot refuse 
them this satisfaction. 

Queen Cleopatra wore for a head-dress a sort of very 
light golden helmet formed of the body and wings of 
the sacred hawk; the wings, falling fan-like on either 
side of the head, covered her temples and spread down 
almost over the neck, allowing to emerge through a 
small cut an ear rosier and more delicately formed than 
the shell whence rose Venus, whom the Egyptians 
name Hathor. ‘The bird’s tail was in the place where 
ladies wear their chignons ; its body, covered with im- 
bricated feathers, and painted with different enamels, 
enveloped the upper part of the head, and the neck, 
gracefully turned towards the front, composed, with 
the head, a sort of horn dazzling with gems. A sym- 
bolical crest in the shape of a tower completed this 
elegant though curious head-dress. Hair as black as 
a starless night escaped from under the helmet and 
fell in long tresses upon fair shoulders, the upper por- 
tion of which alone could be seen above a collarette 
adorned with several rows of serpentine, azerodrach, 
and chrysoberyl. A robe of lawn with diagonal rib- 
bing, a misty stuff, — woven air, ventus textilis, as 


Petronius has it, — fell like a white vapour around the 


234 


bbb bbb bb bbb bbb be 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


beautiful body, the contours of which it delicately soft- 
ened. The short sleeves fitted close on the shoulder, 
but were wider near the elbow, and showed a lovely 
arm and perfectly shaped hand; the arm bound with 
six circlets of gold, and the hand adorned with a ring 
representing a scarabeus. A sash, the knotted ends of 
which fell in front, marked the waist of the loose, easy 
tunic. A fringed cape completed the costume ; and if 
a few barbaric words do not frighten my readers, I 
shall add that the dress was called schenti and the cape 
calasiris. 

I may add that Queen Cleopatra wore very thin, 
light sandals, turned up at the point and fastened over 
the instep like the long-pointed shoes of ladies in the 
Middle Ages. 

Yet Queen Cleopatra did not wear the satisfied air 
of a woman sure of being perfectly beautiful and per- 
fectly dressed. She twisted and turned upon her 
narrow bed, and her abrupt movements constantly 
disarranged the folds of her gauze conopeum, which 
Charmian readjusted with inexhaustible patience with- 
out ever ceasing to wave her fan. 


> 


“JT am stifling in this room,” said Cleopatra. “If 


Phtha, the god of fire, had started his furnaces here, it 


mele 


tetetbetttttetetttttttttst 
ONE \OF CLEOPAPDPRA'S NIG 


could not be hotter. “The room is like an oven.” And 
she passed the tip of her little tongue over her lips and 
stretched out her hand like a patient who looks for a 
cup that is not there. 

Charmian, ever attentive, clapped her hands. A 
black slave, wearing a kilt pleated like an Albanian 
skirt, and a panther skin thrown over his shoulder, 
entered as swiftly as an apparition, holding in equilib- 
rium in his left hand a tray laden with cups and slices 
of watermelon, and in his right a long vase provided 
with a spout like a teapot. The slave filled one of the 
cups, pouring from on high with marvellous dexterity, 
and placed it before the queen. Cleopatra wetted her 
lips with the drink, and turning upon Charmian her 
lovely black eyes, unctuous and lighted by a brilliant 
spark of light, — 


“¢ Oh, Charmian,” she said, “ I am weary.” 


II 


CHARMIAN, foreseeing a confidence, put on an expres- 
sion of dolorous assent, and drew nearer her mistress. 


bd 


“Tam horribly weary,’’ went on Cleopatra, letting 
her arms fall as if discouraged and overcome; “ Egypt 


crushes me and bears me down. That implacably 


236 


bebebebbtttttttttttett tee 


we oe Te 


ONE OP ‘ChE OBATRA’'S: NIGHTS 


blue sky is more gloomy than the deepest night of 
Erebus. Never a shadow and never a cloud! Always 
that red, bloody sun gazing upon me like the eye of a 
cyclops! See, Charmian, I would give a pearl for a 
drop of rain. From the burning orb of that bronze 
sky there has not fallen a single tear upon this desolate 
land. It is like the covering of a tomb, like the dome 
of a necropolis, —a sky as dead and dry as the 
mummies which it covers. It weighs on my shoulders 
like a cloak that is too heavy ; it troubles and worries 
me; I feel as if I could not rise without striking my 
head against it. And then the country is truly fright- 
ful, —- everything sombre, enigmatical, incomprehen- 
sible. Imagination gives birth but to monstrous 
chimeras and vast monuments. I am terrified by its 
architecture and its art. The colossi, condemned to 
remain eternally seated, their hands on their knees and 
their legs caught in the stone, weary me with their 
stupid immobility; they oppress my eyes and my 
reason. When will the giant come who is to take 
them by the hand and relieve them of their watch of 
twenty centuries? Even granite tires at last. Who is 
the master they are waiting for to leave the mountain 


on which they are seated, and to rise in sign of respect? 


237 


ttetebetttteetetttttttete 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


What invisible flock do these great sphinxes guard, as 
they crouch like watch-dogs ?— for they never close 
their eyes, and their claws are ever unsheathed. Why 
do they so obstinately fix their stony glare upon Eter- 
nity and the Infinite? What strange secret do their 
closed lips retain within their breasts? Right or 
left, whichever way I turn, I see naught but hor- 
rid monsters, dogs with men’s heads, men with 
dogs’ heads, chimeras born of hideous couplings in the 
dark depths of passages, — Anubis, Typhon, Osiris, 
yellow-eyed hawks whose inquisitive glance seems to 
traverse your heart and to see, beyond you, unnam- 
able things, —a host of horrible animals and gods with 
scaly wings, hooked beaks, sharp claws, ever ready to 
devour and seize you if you but cross the threshold of 
the temple and raise the corner of the veil. 

“© On the walls, on the pillars, on the ceilings, on the 
floors, in the palaces, in the temples, in the deepest depths 
and lowest wells of the necropolis, even in the entrails 
of the earth, whither light never reaches, where torches 
die out for lack of air, — everywhere and ever, endless 
carved and painted hieroglyphs telling in incomprehen- 
sible language things now no longer known, which be- 


long doubtless to vanished creations; mighty buried 


238 


SEEPS AEE AES AAA tetetse 
ONE, OF (CLEORATRA’S NIGHTS 


works in which a whole people was worn out writing a 
king’s epitaph. Mystery and granite — such is Egypt ! 
What a country for a woman and a queen who is 
young! Nothing but threatening and funereal symbols, 
—the pedum, the tau, the allegorical disc, the curled 
serpent, the scales for the weighing of souls, — the 
Unknown, Death, and Nothingness! For sole vegeta- 
tion, stela inscribed with strange characters ; for avenues 
of trees, avenues of granite obelisks; for soil, vast 
granite slabs of which each mountain can furnish but 
one; for a heaven, granite ceilings, — eternity made 
palpable, a bitter and incessant sarcasm on the fragility 
and the shortness of life ; stairs made for Titans, which 
human feet cannot ascend and which have to be 
climbed by ladders; pillars which a hundred arms could 
not surround; labyrinths where one’s way is lost before 
exit is found, —the vertigo of enormity, the intoxica- 
tion of the gigantic, the disorder bred of pride which 
means at any cost to carve its name on the surface of 
the earth. 

“¢ And then, Charmian, let me tell you, — there is a 
thought that terrifies me. In other countries on this 
earth bodies are burned and their ashes are soon 


mingled with the soil; here the living seem to have no 


2.39 


HLAAAC ALE ALLS tet tsetttts 
ONE“ OF CELEOPATRA-S (NIGH 


other occupation than to preserve the dead. | Powerful 
balms preserve them from destruction ; they retain 
their form and their aspect. “The soul gone, the frame 
remains, and under this people lie twenty peoples ; each 
city stands upon twenty stories of tombs, each genera- 
tion which disappears makes a new population of mum- 
mies in a darksome city. Under the father lie the 
grandfather and the ancestor in their painted and gilded 
boxes, such as they were during their life; and the 
more you dig, the more you find. When I think of 
the multitudes wrapped in bandages, of the swarms 
of dried-up spectres which fill up the funeral wells and 
which have been there for two thousand years, face to 
face, in a silence that nothing breaks, not even the 
worm of the sepulchre as it crawls past, and which will 
be found intact after two thousand other years, with 
their cats and their crocodiles and their ibises and all 
that lived at the same time with them, —I feel over- 
come by terror, and I shudder with fear. What do 
they say, since they yet have lips, and their soul, if the 
fancy occurred to it, would find the body in the state in 
which it left it? 

“¢ Koypt is indeed a sinister realm and not suited to 


me, who am gay and joyous. Everything contains a 


240 


che cte cheba oe che he cde te beech cbe dele de ch cbecde ce choo 


Ue are ciw Fre wre Fe We 


ONE OF s<OCLEOPATRA’S (NIGHTS 


mummy ; it is the heart and the kernel of all things. 
After a thousand turns, it is there one ends. ‘The 
pyramids conceal sarcophagi. It is all nothingness 
and vanity. For in vain they rip open the heavens 
with gigantic triangles of stone; they cannot lengthen 
the bodies by one inch. 

‘“¢ How is it possible to rejoice and laugh in such a 
land, where the only perfume is the bitter odour of 
naphtha and bitumen boiling in the kettles of the 
embalmers; where the floor of your chamber sounds 
hollow because the corridors of hypogea and mummy 
pits extend even under your alcove? It is pleasant, 
is it not, to be the queen of mummies, to have no 
one to chat with but statues in_ stiff, constrained 
attitudes? Ah, if to temper this sadness I had at least 
some passion in my heart, some interest in my life, if 
I only loved some one or something; if I were loved ! 
But I am not even that, and so I am weary, Charmian. 
Had I love, this arid, repellent Egypt would be more 
charming to me than Greece with its gods of ivory, its 
white marble temples, its woods of rose laurels and its 
springs of living water. I should not then think of the 
hideous face of Anubis and of the terrors of the subter- 


ranean cities.”’ 


16 241 


Leeebeee ke eebebebebed tts 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


Charmian smiled incredulously. “ That cannot 
cause you very great grief, for every one of your 
glances pierces hearts like the golden arrows of Eros 
himself.” 

“ How is a queen,” replied Cleopatra, “to know 
whether it is she or her diadem that is loved. The 
radiance of her starry crown dazzles eyes and hearts. 
If I were not seated on a throne, should I be as famous 
and popular as Bacchides or Archenassa, or the first 
courtesan you could pick up in Athens or Miletus? 
A queen is something so far from men, raised so high, 
sO apart, so impossible, that no presumption could hope 
to succeed in such an enterprise. She is no longer a 
woman; she is an august, sacred, sexless figure which 
men worship on their knees without loving her, as 
they worship the statue of a goddess. Who was ever 
seriously in love with Hera the snowy-armed, with Pallas 
the green-eyed? Who ever sought to kiss the silvery 
feet of Thetis or the rosy fingers of Dawn? What 
lover of divine beauties ever took wing to fly to the 
golden palaces of heaven? Respect and terror turn 
souls to stone in our presence, and to be loved by our 
like, one must descend to the necropolis of which I 


spoke but now.” 


242 


SBLALALALLEALLALALLALL ALL LL 
ONED OF CLEORATRA’S NIGHTS 


Although she made no objection to the reasoning of 
her mistress, a faint smile flitting over the lips of the 
Greek slave proved that she did not entirely believe in 
this inviolability of the royal person. 

“Oh!” continued Cleopatra, “would that some- 
thing might happen to me, —a strange, unexpected 
adventure! ‘Ihe song of poets, the dances of Syrian 
slaves, the feasts crowned with roses and prolonged 
until the dawn, the night hunts with Laconian dogs, 
the tame lions, the hump-backed dwarfs, the members 
of the Brotherhood of Inimitables, the combats in the 
arena, the new dresses, the byssus robes, the strings of 
pearls, the perfumes of Asia, the most exquisite refine- 
ments, the maddest splendour, — nothing now interests 
me. All things are indifferent, all things unbearable to 
me.” 

“<It is easy to be seen,” whispered Charmian, “ that 
the queen has had no lover, and has had no one killed 
for a month.” 

Tired by her long tirade, Cleopatra again took up the 
cup placed by her side and raised it to her lips, put her 
head under her arm with a dovelike motion, and settled 
herself as well as she could to sleep. Charmian untied 


her sandals and gently tickled the soles of her feet with 


243 


che oe oe ob abe oe oh che dr tecdeecbecbe cece ooo oh he cheek 


ae Ge He Te Fo We re 


ob. 
ONEV OR: CEB OPA LT RAS Noe 


the vane of a peacock’s feather. Sleep soon cast its 
golden dust over the lovely eyes of Ptolemy’s sister. 

And now that Cleopatra is slumbering, let us ascend 
to the deck of the vessel and enjoy the wondrous sight 
of the setting sun. 

A broad violet band, warmed by reddish tones in the 
west, fills the lower portion of the heavens. As it 
meets the azure zones, the violet tint melts into pale 
lilac and disappears in the blue with a rosy half-tint. 
On the side on which the sun, red as a buckler fallen 
from the forge of Vulcan, casts its crimson reflec- 
tion, the tint turns to pale lemon-yellow and produces 
effects similar to those of a turquoise. The water, 
touched by an oblique ray, has the mat brilliancy of a 
mirror seen on the silvered side, or of a damascened 
blade. The sinuosities of the bank, the reeds, and the 
broken outlines of the shore stand out in strong black 
and bring out the more vividly the whitish reverbera- 
tion. By the twilight luminousness one can perceive 
afar, like a grain of dust fallen upon quicksilver, a little 
brown dot that trembles in a network of luminous 
threads. Is it a teal diving, a tortoise drifting down 
stream, a crocodile raising the end of its squamous nose, 


in order to breathe the cooler air of evening, or the 


24.4 


feeebhebbebbbebbbbbet ee 
ONE OR- GCGLBOPATRA’S’ NIGHTS 


belly of a hippopotamus turning on the water? Or is 
it a rock left uncovered by the sinking of the river? 
For old Hapimau, Father of Waters, is in great need 
of filling his empty urn with the rains of the solstice in 
the Mountains of the Moon. 

It is nothing of the kind. By the pieces of Osiris, 
so happily put together again, it is a man who seems to 
walk or skate over the water. One can now see the 
skiff which upbears him, a little nutshell, a hollowed 
fish, three bands of bark put together, one forming the 
floor and two the sides, solidly fastened at each end 
with tarred cords. A man stands, one foot on each 
gunwale of the frai] craft, which he manages with a 
single paddle that performs at the same time the office 
of rudder, and although the royal barge, impelled by 
fifty oars, flies swiftly along, the little black skiff is 
plainly gaining upon it. Cleopatra wished but now for 
a strange adventure, for something unexpected. ‘That 
little slender craft with its mysterious ways strikes me 
as bearing with it, if not an adventure, at least an 
adventurer. Perchance it contains the hero of my tale. 

In any case, he is a handsome young fellow of 
twenty, with hair so black that it shows blue. against 
the golden skin, and of such perfect proportions that he 


24.5 


bhbbbbhbbbbbtttbbtttte toe 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


might have been cast in bronze by Lysippus. Although 
he has been paddling for a long time, he shows no 
signs of fatigue, and not a single bead of perspiration 
marks his brow. 

The sun was sinking below the horizon, and against 
its disc stood out the brown silhouette of a distant 
city which the eye could not have perceived but for 
this chance effect of light. Soon it sank altogether, 
and the stars, the fair ones of the night sky, opened 
their golden calyxes in the azure firmament. The 
royal barge, closely followed by the little skiff, stopped 
near a black marble staircase, on each step of which 
was placed one of the sphinxes abhorred of Cleopatra. 
It was the landing-place of the Summer Palace. 

Cleopatra, leaning on the arm of Charmian, passed 
rapidly like a dazzling vision between the double lines 
of slaves bearing torches. The young man lifted from 
the bottom of his skiff a great lion’s skin, cast it over 
his shoulder, sprang lightly to the shore, drew up the 
skiff on the bank and walked towards the palace. 


Ill 


Who is this young man who, standing in a boat of 


bark, has the assurance to follow the royal barge, and 


246 


Copyright, rg01, by George D. Sproul 


Cleopatra, leaning on the arm of Charmian, passed rapidly like 
a dazzling vision between the double lines of slaves bearing 


torches 


LEEKS LSC ees eetetetetesd 
ON Eye CL BROPAGW RAS INIGHTS 


rivals the speed of fifty oarsmen of the country of 
Kush, bare to the waist and rubbed with palm oil? 
What interest urges him to his deed? This is what 
I am obliged to know, in consequence of being a poet 
gifted with intuition, for whom all men, and even all 
women, —which is yet more difficult, — must have in 
the side the window called for by Momus. 

It is not perhaps very easy to ascertain the thoughts 
of a young man of some two thousand years ago, from 
the land of Keme, who has followed the barge of Cleo- 
patra, Queen and Goddess Evergetes, returning from 
the Hammisi of Hermonthis; nevertheless, I shall try. 

Meiamoun, son of Mandouschopsch, was a young 
man of strange character. All that touches ordinary 
mortals made no impression upon him. He seemed to 
belong to a higher race. His glance had the brilliancy 
and fixity of the hawk, a serene majesty dwelt upon his 
brow as on a marble pedestal; a noble disdain curled 
his upper lip and swelled his nostrils like those of a 
spirited steed. Although he had almost the delicate 
grace of a young maid, and Dionysius, the effeminate 
god, had not a rounder and more polished breast, he 
concealed under this appearance of softness muscles of 


steel and Herculean strength, for he enjoyed the privi- 


247 


bebbhbbttbetbhtdthdkde ttt 
ONE!’ OF 'CLEOPATRA’S (NIGEaES 


lege of certain natures of antiquity which united in 
themselves the beauty of woman and the strength of 
man. As for his complexion, I am constrained to con- 
fess that he was the colour of an orange, quite contrary 
to the rosy and white ideal of beauty which we indulge 
in; it did not, however, prevent his being a very 
charming young fellow, much sought after by all man- 
ner of red, yellow, copper-coloured, brown, and golden 
women, and even by more than one white-skinned 
Greek. 

Do not, however, conclude from this that Meiamoun 
was a lady-killer. The ashes of old Priam, and icy 
Hippolytus himself were not more insensible and 
colder; a young neophyte in his white tunic, who is 
preparing to be initiated into the mysteries of Isis, does 
not lead a chaster life; a young girl who shivers in the 
glacial shadow of her mother has not as much timid 
purity. 

The pleasures of Meiamoun were, nevertheless, of 
a curious kind for so shy a young man. He would start 
quietly in the morning with his little buckler of hippo- 
potamus skin, his arpe, or curved sword, his triangular 
bow, and his serpent-skin quiver filled with barbed 


arrows. ‘Then he would dash into the desert, and 


248 


Leeeteeeetetttetbhtteetees 
ONEROL CLEORADRA’S NIGHIS 


send his slender-limbed steed, with its small head and 
flying mane, at full speed until he came across the track 
of a lioness. He greatly enjoyed taking the lion cubs 
from their watching mother. In everything he cared 
only for what was perilous or impossible. He loved 
to walk along impossible paths, to swim in turbulent 
waters, and he would have preferred to bathe in the 
Nile where it falls in cataracts. He had a love for the 
abyss. Such was Meiamoun, son of Mandouschopsch. 
For some time past he had become more fond of 
solitude than ever. He would disappear for whole 
months within the ocean of sand, and reappear only at 
rare intervals. His anxious mother in vain bent from 
the top of her terrace and questioned the road with 
untiring eyes. After a long waiting a small cloud of 
dust would whirl on the horizon. Soon it would open 
and show Meiamoun, covered with dust, on his steed 
as thin as a she-wolf, with red, bloodshot eyes, quiver- 
ing nostrils, and cicatrices on her flanks not due to 
spurs. ‘Then, after having hung up in his room the 
skin of a hyena or a lion, he would start off again. 
And yet no one could have been happier, had he 
chosen, than Meiamoun. He was loved by Nephte, 


the daughter of the priest Afomouthis, the loveliest girl 


249 


kteeetcedteetteettttetttte 
ONEWOF CLEOPATRA’S 'NUGEHTS 


in the nome of Arsinoites. Any one but Meiamoun 
would have seen that Nephte had lovely eyes turned up 
at the corners with an indefinable expression of volup- 
tuousness, a mouth on which flashed a rosy smile, 
white, clear teeth, exquisitely rounded arms, and feet 
more perfectly shaped than the jasper feet of the statue 
of Isis. Unquestionably, in all Egypt no one had a 
tinier hand or longer hair. Nephte’s charms could 
have been surpassed only by the charms of Cleopatra. 
But who would think of falling in love with Cleopatra? 
Ixion, who loved Juno, clasped but a cloud in his arms, 
and is eternally turning his wheel in Hades. 

Yet it was Cleopatra whom Meiamoun loved. At 
first he had endeavoured to overcome the mad passion ; 
he had struggled bodily with it; but love is not to be 
choked as a lion is choked, and the most vigorous athletes 
are powerless against it. “he arrow had remained in the 
wound, and he dragged it everywhere with him. The 
image of Cleopatra, radiant and splendid in her diadem 
with its golden spikes, standing alone in her imperial 
purple amid the kneeling people, shone upon him in his 
waking hours and in his sleep. Like the imprudent 
man who has gazed at the sun and who ever after sees 


a spot fluttering incessantly before him,so did Meiamoun 


250 


TTT TTT TTT 
ONO CERORATRA’S “NIGH HES 


ever behold Cleopatra. Eagles may gaze at the sun 
without being dazzled, but what diamond eye could be 
fixed with impunity upon a beautiful woman, upon a 
beautiful queen? 

His life was spent in wandering around the royal 
dwellings in order to breathe the same air as Cleopatra, 
to kiss on the sand —a happiness, alas! too rare — 
the half-effaced imprint of her foot. He attended the 
sacred festivals and celebrations, and tried to catch a 
glance of her eyes, to seize as she passed by one of the 
thousand aspects of her beauty. Sometimes he became 
ashamed of this mad existence, and then indulged in 
hunting with increased fury, endeavouring to tame by 
fatigue his hot blood and his passionate desires. 

He had gone to the Panegyrics of Hermonthis, and 
in the vague hope of seeing the queen for a second 
when she landed at the Summer Palace, he had followed 
the barge on his skiff, without caring for the fierce 
beating of the sun, ina heat fit to bring out a sweat 
of lava upon the sphinxes lying breathless on their 
blazing pedestals. ‘Then he understood that he had 
reached a supreme moment, that his fate was about 
to be decided, and that he could not die with his 


secret untold. 


251 


che hecho os oh oh oe oe abe check ecb hao feces che abel 


we oe ve bad 


ONEV OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHEis 


It is a strange situation for a man to be in —to love 
a queen; it is as if he loved a star. But the star will 
come every night to shine in its place in the heavens; 
it keeps a sort of mysterious tryst; it can be found; it 
can be seen, and glances do not offend it. But, oh, 
wretchedness ! to be poor, unknown, obscure, to be at 
the very bottom of the ladder, and to feel one’s heart 
full of love for a solemn, radiant, splendid creature, for 
a woman whose meanest maid would not even look at 
one! ‘To fix one’s glance unchangingly upon some 
one who sees not, who will never see; for whom one 
is but a wave in the crowd like other waves, and who 
passes one a hundred times without recognition! ‘To 
have, if the occasion to speak occurs, no justification 
for one’s mad audacity, neither a poet’s talent nor 
great genius nor superhuman qualities, — nothing but 
love; and in exchange for beauty, nobility, power, 
all the splendours of one’s dream, to bring in one’s 
hands passion or youth only, not very rare things! 

These thoughts overwhelmed Meiamoun, as he lay 
flat on the sand, his chin in his hands. He allowed 
himself to be swept away and borne along on the stream 
of passing reverie; he sketched a thousand plans, each 


more insensate than the others. He realised that what 


252 


ee ee er es 


ore ere ote ere ota re TTS FO SOO YS 


ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


he aimed at was impossible, but he had not the courage 
to frankly give up, and treacherous hope whispered 
lying promises in his ear. 

‘¢ Hathor, mighty goddess,” he murmured, “ what 
have I done to you to make me so unhappy! Are 
you avenging yourself for my disdain of Nephte, the 
daughter of the priest Afoumouthis? Are you angry 
with me for having repelled Lamia, the Athenian 
hetaira, or Flora, the Roman courtesan? Is it my 
fault if my heart can feel only the beauty of Cleopatra, 
your sole rival? Why have you driven into my heart 
the poisoned barb of impossible love ? What sacrifices 
and what offerings do you ask? Shall I build you a 
chapel of rose marble of Syéné, with columns and 
gilded capitals and a ceiling of one stone, and hiero- 
glyphs cut by the best workmen of Memphis or 
Thebes? Answer me!” 

But, like all gods and goddesses whom men call upon, 
Hathor answered nothing. 

Meiamoun came to a desperate decision. 

Cleopatra, on her part, was also invoking the god- 
dess Hathor, asking of her a new pleasure, some yet 
unknown sensation. Languidly leaning upon_ her 


couch, she reflected that the number of senses is very 


253 


HALALCHEALAL ALLA ALALALALAL LSS 
ONE’ OF ‘CLEOPATRA’S NI.GEARS 


limited; that the most exquisite refinement is quickly 
followed by disgust, and that it is very difficult indeed 
for a queen to fill up her days. ‘To try new poisons 
upon slaves, to have men fight with tigers, or gladi- 
ators fight with each other, to drink molten pearls, 
to devour a province, — all that was tasteless and com- 
monplace. Charmian was reduced to expedients, and 
did not know what had come to her mistress. 

Suddenly a hissing sound was heard, and an arrow 
quivered in the cedar wainscotting of the wall. 

Cleopatra nearly fainted with terror. Charmian 
bent out of the window, but saw nothing save a fleck 
of foam on the river. A strip of paper was wound 
around the shaft of the arrow. Upon it were written 


these words in phonetic characters: ‘ I love you.” 


IV 


“T Love you!” repeated Cleopatra, twisting between 
her slender, white fingers the piece of papyrus rolled 
scutula fashion. ‘These are the words that I asked 
for. What intelligent soul, what concealed genius, has 
so well understood my desire?”” And entirely roused 
from her languorous torpor, she sprang from her 


couch with the agility of a kitten that smells a mouse, 


254 


KEELE ALEAALLAAALALLLALALAE SSA 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


put her little, fairy feet into embroidered slippers, cast 
a byssus tunic on her shoulders, and hastened to the 
window out of which Charmian was still looking. 

The night was clear and serene. “The moon, which 
had already risen, cast great angles of shadow and light 
upon the architectural masses of the palace, which 
stood out strangely against a transparent, bluish back- 
ground, and shimmered in silver upon the waters of 
the stream on which its rays lengthened out in a 
sparkling trail. A light breath of air, that might 
have been mistaken for the purring of the sleeping 
sphinxes, made the reeds quiver and the azure bells of 
lotus shiver. The cables of the boats moored by the 
banks of the Nile creaked softly, and the wave plained 
on the shore like a mateless dove. A vague per- 
fume of vegetation, sweeter than that of the incense 
burned by the priests of Anubis, came up into the 
room. It was one of the enchanted nights of the East, 
more splendid than our loveliest days, for our sun is 
not the equal of such a moon. 

‘¢ Do you not see yonder, about the centre of the 
stream, the head of a swimmer?’ See, he is now 
traversing the stretch of light, and is about to disappear 


in the shadow. Now we can no longer make him 


255 


ote oe ofa oh oe a oh oe edocs oe cbocde cee cool oe chook 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


93 


out.” And leaning upon Charmian’s shoulder, she 
projected half of her beautiful body from the window 
in order to try to find the trace of the mysterious 
swimmer. But a wood of Nile acacias, of ddm palms 
and sealehs cast a shadow over the river at this place 
and protected the flight of the audacious man. If 
Meiamoun had had the wit to turn around, he would 
have caught sight of Cleopatra, the starry queen, whose 
glance was eagerly seeking him through the night, — 
him, the poor obscure Egyptian, the wretched lion- 
hunter. 

“« Charmian, send for Phrehipephbour, the chief of 
the rowers, and let two boats be sent without delay in 


> 


pursuit of this man,” said Cleopatra, whose curiosity 
was excited to the highest degree. 

Phrehipephbour appeared. He was a man of the 
Nahasi race, with broad hands, muscular arms, wearing 
a red cap not unlike the Phrygian helmet, and close- 
fitting drawers striped diagonally white and blue. His 
torso, entirely bare, shone in the light of the lamp, black 
and polished like a jet globe. He received the queen’s 
orders, and at once withdrew to carry them out. 

Two long, narrow skiffs, so light that the least care- 


lessness would have caused them to capsise, were soon 


256 


LLELLALL ELSES AE ELERLELLE 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


dashing across the Nile under the impulse of twenty 
vigorous oarsmen. But the quest was fruitless. After 
having explored the river in every direction and 
searched every tuft of reeds, Phrehipephbour returned 
to the palace without having done more than caused a 
sleeping heron to take flight and upset the digestion of 
a crocodile or two. 

Cleopatra was so bitterly disappointed that she ex- 
perienced a lively wish to doom Phrehipephbour to the 
grindstone or to the wild beasts. Fortunately Charmian 
interceded for the trembling wretch, who turned pale 
under his black skin. It was the first time in her life 
that one of Cleopatra’s desires had not at once been 
fulfilled; she therefore experienced an uneasy surprise, 
a sort of first doubt as to her omnipotence. 

She, Cleopatra, wife and sister of Ptolemy, proclaimed 
Goddess Evergetes, the Living Queen of the Lower and 
the Upper Regions, the Eye of Light, the Beloved of 
the Sun, as may be seen by the cartouches carved upon 
the temple walls, —she to meet with an obstacle, to 
have willed something which was not done, to have 
spoken and not been obeyed! She might just as well 
be the wife of some poor undertaker and melt bitumen 


ina kettle. It was monstrous, it was outrageous, and 


Ly 257 


Libkbbhhbbbhbbhbbbbbbbb bbe 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


indeed, if she had not been a very gentle and clement 
queen, she would have that wretch Phrehipephbour 
crucified. 

Yet she had wished for an adventure, for something 
strange and unexpected, and her wish was gratified. 
Her kingdom was not as dead as she had thought ; 
it was no stone statue’s arm that shot the arrow; it 
was not from a mummy’s heart that came the three 
words that had moved her, she who looked with 
a smile at her poisoned slaves, beating their heads 
and heels in agony upon her lovely pavements of 
mosaic and porphyry, she who applauded the tiger 
when it had torn open the side of the conquered 
gladiator ! 

She can have whatever she pleases: silver cars 
studded with emeralds, quadrigze of griffins, tunics of 
purple thrice dyed, mirrors of polished steel set in 
precious stones so bright that she can see her beauty in 
them, gowns from the land of Serica, so fine, so tenu- 
ous that they could be passed through the ring on her 
little finger, pearls of perfect shape, cups by Lysippus 
or Myron, Indian parrots that speak like poets, — she 
can have everything she pleases, even if she call for 


the cestus of Venus or the pschent of Isis, but she will 


258 


LEELLALLALALLALLLLALLL ELS 
ONE: OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


not have to-night the man who shot the arrow that 
still quivers in the cedar-wood of her bed. 

The slaves who will dress her to-morrow will not 
have a pleasant time. They had better be deft and 
light-handed, or the golden pins on the dressing-table 
may be thrust into the breast of the unskilful hair- 
dresser, and the rubber run the risk of being hanged 
from the ceiling by her feet. 

‘Who could have had the audacity to shoot that 
declaration fastened to an arrow? Is it the nomarch 
Ammon Ra, who believes himself more beautiful than 
the Apollo of the Greeks, or is it Cheopsira, the com- 
mander of Hermotybios, so proud of his battles in the 
country of Kush? Or may it not be rather young 
Sextus, the Roman debauchee, who rouges, lisps, and 
wears Persian sleeves? ” 

.“O Queen, none of these. Although you are the 
loveliest woman in the world, these people flatter you 
and do not love you. Ammon Ra has an idol to which 
he will be always faithful, — himself; Cheopsira the 
warrior thinks only of telling his battles ; as for Sextus, 
he is so taken up with compounding a new cosmetic 
that he has no thoughts for anything else. Besides, he 


has received from Laconia yellow tunics brocaded with 


259 


ONE OF Cen Ars phere 


gold, and Asiatic children which entirely take up his 
attention. None of these handsome lords would risk 
his neck in so bold and perilous an enterprise, — they 
do not love you enough for that. But yesterday you 
said in your barge that dazzled eyes dare not gaze 
upon you, that men could only turn pale and fall at 
your feet in supplication, and that there was nothing 
left for you but to awaken in his gilded bier some old 
Pharaoh perfumed with bitumen. Now here is a 
young and ardent heart that loves you. What will 
you do with it?” 

That night Cleopatra had much difficulty in going 
to sleep. She turned in her bed; she long called in 
vain for Morpheus the brother of Death. She repeated 
several times that she was the most unfortunate of 
queens, that everybody took pains to be contrary, that 
life was unbearable, — terrible grievances which did not 
touch Charmian very much, although she pretended to 
sympathise with them. 

Let me leave Cleopatra in search of the sleep which 
avoids her, as she turns over in her mind the names of 
all the great at court, and let me return to Meiamoun. 
More skilful than Phrehipephbour, chief of the rowers, 
I shall manage to find him. 


260 


tetbbbbttttedbbbttttttes 
DNE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


Terrified by his own boldness, Meiamoun had cast 
himself into the Nile and had swum across to the little 
grove of dom palms before Phrehipephbour had launched 
the two boats in pursuit of him. When he had recoy- 
ered his breath and thrown back behind his ears his 
long hair covered with the foam of the stream, he felt 
more comfortable and calmer. Cleopatra now had 
something that came from him; there was now a bond 
between them. Cleopatra thought of him, Meiamoun. 
It might have been an angry thought, but at least he 
had awakened in her some emotion, terror, anger, or 
pity; he had compelled her to be aware of his exist- 
ence. It is true that he had forgotten to put his name 
upon the paper strip, but what would ‘“* Meiamoun, son 
of Mandouschopsch,”’ have told the queen? A mon- 
arch or a slave were the same to her. A deity does 
not lower herself any more if she takes for her lover a 
man of the people than if she takes a patrician or a 
king. When one is placed so high, love alone is seen 
in a man. 

The words that pressed upon his heart like the knee 
of a bronze statue had at last gone forth; they had 
traversed the air, had reached the queen, the apex of 


the triangle, the inaccessible summit. In her disillu- 


261 


LA}LDAL ALE LSE AAtetetttts 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


sioned heart he had excited curiosity, which was a good 
deal. 

Meiamoun had no idea that he had succeeded so 
well, but he was calmer, for he had sworn to himself 
by the mystic bari which takes souls to Amenti, by the 
sacred birds, Bennu and Gheughen, by Typhon, by 
Osiris, by all the terrors of Egyptian mythology, that he 
would be Cleopatra’s lover, were it but a night, were it 
but an hour, even if it cost him his soul and body. 

It would be useless to try to explain how this love 
had come about, —love for a woman whom he had only 
seen from afar and to whom he scarce dared lift his 
eyes, he who did not cast them down before the yellow 
orbs of lions ; or how that little grain, fallen by chance 
in his soul, had grown so quickly and thrown out such 
deep roots. It is a mystery ; as I have said, the abyss 
attracted him. 

When he was quite sure that Phrehipephbour had 
returned with the oarsmen, he sprang a second time 
into the Nile and swam towards Cleopatra’s palace, 
where a lamp shone through a purple curtain like a 
radiant star. Leander did not swim towards the 
Tower of Sestos more boldly and vigorously, yet 


Meiamoun was not awaited by a Hero, ready to pour 


262 


che che be ab oe ob alls obs ob abe ab beable oboe eyeball be of eb cle 


Oe Fe OF) ate wVe ome Ore Fe OO CFO CFO OTE UTE OFS 


QONHDOK CLBORADRA’S NODGHTS 


upon his head vials of perfumes in order to drive away 
the smell of the sea and the bitter kisses of the tem- 
pest. The best that could happen to him was a good 
lance-thrust or sword-cut; and, truth to tell, he was 
not much afraid of it. 

He swam for some time along the palace wall, the 
marble base of which plunged into the river, and 
stopped before a submerged opening into which the 
water rushed with a whirl. He dived two or three 
times unsuccessfully. Finally he was luckier, found 
the passage, and disappeared. 

The arcade was a vaulted canal which led the waters 


of the Nile to the baths of Cleopatra. 


V 


Ir was not until morning, at the time when dreams 
come back after their flight through the ivory gates, 
that Cleopatra slept. In her visions she saw all 
manner of lovers swimming or scaling walls to reach 
her, and —-a remembrance of the night before — end- 
less arrows bearing declarations of love. Her little 
feet, agitated by nervous tremulousness, beat upon the 
breast of Charmian lying across the bed to serve her 


as a pillow. 


263 


bebtebetteeetetettteetcttes 
ONEVOER CEBOPA TRA 5 NEG Has 


When she awoke, the brilliant sunshine was playing 
through the window curtain and lighting it up with 
innumerable points of light; it came familiarly to the 
bed and fluttered like a golden butterfly around her 
lovely shoulders, on which it dropped a kiss of light as 
it flashed. Happy sunbeam, which the gods would 
have envied ! 

Cleopatra, in a dying voice like a sick child’s, called 
her maids to help her to rise. “Iwo of her women 
lifted her in their arms and placed her carefully on the 
ground on a great tiger-skin, with claws of gold and 
eyes of carbuncles. Charmian wrapped her in a linen 
calasiris whiter than milk, bound her hair with a net of 
silver threads, and placed on her feet sandals of cork, on 
the soles of which, as a mark of contempt, had been 
drawn two grotesque figures representing two men of 
the Nahasi and Namou races, bound hand and foot, so 
that Cleopatra literally deserved the epithet, “She who 
treads on the Nations,’”’ which she bears in the royal 
cartouches. 

It was the hour for the bath. Cleopatra went 
thither with her women. ‘The baths were constructed in 
vast gardens filled with mimosas, carobs, aloes, lemon- 


trees, and Persian apple-trees, whose luxuriant cool- 


264 


chee obs oho oe abe be he he he obec dooce cee ce ele oe he 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


ness contrasted delightfully with the aridity of the 
environs. Great terraces supported masses of verdure, 
and carried the flowers to heaven by giant staircases of 
rose granite. Vases of Pentelic marble bloomed like 
great lilies by the side of the steps, and the plants they 
contained seemed to be merely their pistils. Chimeras 
carved by the most skilful of Greek sculptors, and less 
repellent in appearance than the Egyptian sphinxes 
with their sour mien and their morose attitudes, lay 
idly on the sward diapered with flowers, like slender 
white greyhounds on the carpet of a drawing-room. 
They represented charming figures of women, straight- 
nosed, smooth-browed, with small mouths, arms deli- 
cately plump, round, clean breasts, with earrings, 
necklaces, and ornaments of exquisite fancifulness, and 
ending in fish-tails, like the woman of whom Horace 
speaks, or in birds’ wings, or in the quarters of a 
lioness, or in volutes of foliage, according to the fancy 
of the artist and the exigencies of the architecture. A 
double row of these lovely monsters bordered the 
avenue leading from the palace to the bath hall. 

At the end of the avenue lay a large basin with four 
porphyry steps leading through the transparent, spark- 


ling water to the bottom covered with golden dust. 


265 


thttbbbbbbbetttbtttte tos 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


Statues of women, ending in a block like caryatids, 
poured from their breasts thin streams of scented water, 
which fell into the basin in silver spray and broke its 
clear surface with their glittering drops. Besides this 
purpose, the caryatids served the further one of bearing 
on their heads entablatures adorned with Nereids and 
Tritons in bas-relief, and provided with bronze rings to 
which were fastened the silken cords of the awning. 
Beyond the portico were seen cool, bluish greenery, 
umbrageous shades, a bit of the Vale of Tempe trans- 
ported to Egypt. -The famous gardens of Semiramis 
were as nothing by the side of these. I shall not 
mention the seven or eight other halls of different 
temperatures, with warm or cold vapour, boxes of per- 
fumes, cosmetics, ointments, pumice-stones, hair gloves 
and all the refinements of the art of bathing carried by 
antiquity to so high a pitch of voluptuousness and 
refinement. 

Cleopatra arrived leaning upon Charmian’s shoulder. 
She had walked at least thirty steps by herself, a won- 
drous effort, a dreadful fatigue! A faint, rosy flush, 
showing under the transparent skin of her cheeks, 
brightened their warm pallor. Her temples, golden 


like amber, showed a network of blue veins; her 


266 


cheba cba cto ate ate cde he cba ce tote eo che ce ee cece 


ore 


ONHVOF CLEOPADRA’S NIGHAS 


smooth brow, low like the brows of the women of 
antiquity, but perfectly rounded and shaped, was joined 
by an irreproachable line to a clean, straight nose, with 
rosy nostrils that palpitated at the least emotion like 
the nostrils of an amorous tigress; a small, round 
mouth, close to the nose, with disdainfully curled 
lip; but mad_ voluptuousness, incredible ardour of 
life, beamed in the red brilliancy, the humid lustre 
of her lower lip. Her eyelids were narrow, her eye- 
brows thin and almost straight. I shall not attemp* 
to give an idea of her eyes, which were filled with 
a fire, a languor, a brilliant limpidity, that would have 
turned the dog’s head of Anubis himself. Every one 
of her glances was a poem superior to those of Mim- 
nermus or Homer. An imperial chin, full of strength 
and power, worthily rounded out her exquisite profile. 

| She remained standing on the first step of the basin 
in a proud, graceful attitude, leaning slightly backward, 
one foot uplifted, like a goddess about to leave her 
pedestal, her glance still fixed upon heaven; two 
superb folds fell from the tips of her breasts straight to 
the ground. Cleomenes, had he been her contempo- 
rary and able to see her, would have smashed his 


Venus for very annoyance. 


267 


ebb Lb LLEee bbb tebe bee 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


Before entering the water, a new caprice led her to 
order Charmian to change her silver-net head-dress. 
She preferred a wreath of lotus flowers with reeds like a 
marine deity. Charmian obeyed. Her hair, unbound, 
fell in black masses upon her shoulders, and hung down 
her cheeks like ripe grapes. Then the linen tunic, 
held up by a single golden clasp, was undone, slipped 
down from her marble body, and fell like a white cloud 
at her feet, like the swan at the feet of Leda. 

And where was Meiamoun? Ah, cruel fate! so 
many insensible things enjoy favours which would 
transport a lover with rapture. ‘The wind toys with 
the perfumed hair or kisses lovely lips which it cannot 
appreciate; the water, indifferent to voluptuousness, 
envelops with a single caress the beautiful, adored 
body ; the mirror reflects her many charming images ; 
the cothurn or the sandal encloses a divinely small 
foot ; — oh, how much delight wasted ! 

Cleopatra dipped into the water her golden foot, and 
descended a few steps. [he shimmering water made 
her a belt and bracelets of silver, and rolled in pearls 
upon her breasts and shoulders like a broken necklace ; 
her long hair, supported by the water, stretched behind 


her like a regal mantle. She was a queen even in her 


268 


$f¢teteeeeeetetetttettetest 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


bath. She came and went, plunged and brought up 
handfuls of golden sand which she laughingly threw at 
her women; at other times she hung over the balus- 
trade of the basin, alternately hiding and revealing her 
charms, sometimes showing only her polished, lustrous 
back, sometimes exhibiting herself fully like Venus 
Anadyomene, and constantly varying the aspect of her 
beauty. 

Suddenly she uttered a cry shriller than Diana’s 
when surprised by Acteon. ‘Through the foliage she 
had seen shining a burning glance, yellow and phos- 
phorescent, like the eye of a crocodile or of a lion. It 
was Meiamoun, who, lying on the ground behind a 
tuft of foliage, more agitated than a fawn in a grain- 
field, was drinking in the dangerous joy of gazing upon 
the queen in her bath. 

Although he was brave to rashness, Cleopatra’s cry 
pierced his heart more coldly than a sword-thrust. A 
deathly sweat broke out on his body; his blood surged 
to his temples with a strident sound, and the iron grasp 
of anxiety clutched his throat and choked him. The 
eunuchs hastened up, lance in hand. Cleopatra pointed 
out the group of trees, where they found Meiamoun 


curled up in concealment. 


269 


ttteeetteeettttttetttettts 
ONE’ ‘GF “CLEOPATRA’S INI GEIDS 


Defence was impossible; he did not even attempt 
it, but allowed himself to be arrested. “They were 
making ready to slay him with the cruel and stupid 
impassibility characteristic of eunuchs; but Cleopatra, 
who had had time to wrap herself in her calasiris, signed 
to them to stop and bring the prisoner before her. 

Meiamoun fell at her feet, holding out towards her 
supplicating hands, as if she were the altar. of the 
gods. 

““Are you one of Rome’s paid murderers? What 
were you doing within this sacred place whence men 
are banished?” said Cleopatra, with an imperious 
gesture of interrogation. 

“May my soul be found light in the scales of 
Amente, and T’mei, daughter of the Sun and goddess 
of ‘Truth, banish me, if I have ever entertained any 
evil thought towards you, O Queen,” replied Meiamoun, 
still kneeling. 

Sincerity and loyalty shone on his face so plainly 
that Cleopatra at once put away that thought, and fixed 
on the young Egyptian a less severe and less angry 
look. She thought him handsome. 

“Then what motive brought you to a place where 


death alone awaited you? ” 


270 


thebebbetetttetettettttetee 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


> 


“T love you,” murmured Meiamoun in a low but 
distinct voice; for his courage had come back, as in all 
extreme situations when at their worst. 

“Oh!” said Cleopatra, bending towards him and 
seizing his arm with an abrupt, unexpected motion. 
“Then it was you who shot the arrow with the roll of 
papyrus! By Oms, the dog of the lower regions, you 
are a very bold wretch. Now I know you. I have 
long seen you wandering like a mournful shadow 
around the places I dwell in. You were at the proces- 
sion of Isis, at the Panegyrics of Hermonthis ; you fol- 
lowed my royal barge. Ah! you want a queen! Your 
ambition is not very modest. No doubt you expected 
to have your love requited,— of course I shall love 
you; why not?” 

“OQ Queen,” replied Meiamoun, with grave melan- 
choly, “do not hurl sarcasms at me. J am mad, it is 
true; I have deserved death, that is true also. Be 
humane and have me slain.” 

“No, I shall indulge in the fancy of being clement 
to-day. I grant you your life.” 

‘‘And what would you have me do with my life? 
I love you.” 


“Well, you shall be satisfied; you shall die!” 


271 


ttteeeteeeeeettetttttetttee 
ONE) OF *CURDPAT RATS UNTGEATs 


answered Cleopatra. ‘ You dreamed a strange, an ex- 
travagant dream ; your desires and your longings crossed 
the forbidden place. You thought you were Cesar or 
Mark Antony, and you loved the Queen. In your 
hours of delirium you fancied, perchance, that circum- 
stances which happen but once in a thousand years, 
might lead Cleopatra to love you one day! Well, 
what you believed impossible shall be; I shall turn - 
your dream into reality ; for once I shall enjoy satisfy- 
ing a mad hope. I shall overwhelm you with splen- 
dour, with radiance and lightnings; I mean that your 
fortune shall be dazzling. You were at the bottom of 
the wheel, I shall put you at the top, abruptly, sud- 
denly, without a transition. [| take you from nothing- 
ness and make you the equal of the gods, —and then 
I shall plunge you back into nothingness. But do not 
call me cruel, do not implore my pity, do not weaken 
when the hour strikes. I am kind, I favour your 
folly. I have the right to have you slain at once, but 
you tell me you love me; you shall be slain to-morrow. 
Your life shall be given in exchange for one night. I 
am generous. I purchase it, though I might take it. 
But why are you at my feet? Rise and give me your 


hand to return to the palace.” 


272 


Lkebeeeeetetettettdtdtttotsd 
ONETCOR CEPORADRIA Sy NIGHTS 


VI 


Our world is very small in comparison with the world 
of antiquity, our feasts very mean by the side of the 
terrific sumptuosity of Roman patricians and of Asi- 
atic princes. ‘Their ordinary meals would now pass 
for mad orgies, and the whole of a modern city could 
live for a week upon what was left by Lucullus after 
supping with a few intimate friends. We find it diffi- 
cult to understand, with our miserable habits, these vast 
lives which realised all that imagination can invent in 
the way of boldness and strangeness and of most mon- 
strously abnormal. Our palaces are stables in which 
Caligula would not have put his horses; the richest of 
our constitutional kings does not maintain the state of 
the humblest satrap or of a Roman proconsul. The 
brilliant skies that shone upon earth have died forever in 
the nothingness of uniformity. Above the black swarm 
of men rise no more those colossi whose Titan forms 
traversed the world with three strides like the heroes 
of Homer. There are no more towers of Lylacq, no 
more giant Babels raising to the heavens infinite spirals ; 
no more immeasurable temples built of pieces of moun- 


tains; no more regal terraces which centuries and 


a 273 


ALLALALAEALLAALALALL LAE ALLS 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


nations could increase one course only at a time, and 
whence the prince, leaning on his elbow and sunk in 
thought, could look upon the figure of the world 
as upon an outspread map. No more labyrinthine 
cities, formed of inextricable masses of cyclopean edi- 
fices, with deep circumvallations, amphitheatres filled 
with roars night and day, reservoirs overflowing with 
sea-water and peopled with leviathans and whales, 
colossal staircases, superimposed terraces, towers whose 
summits were lost in clouds, giant palaces, aqueducts, 
vomitories and sombre necropolis. Alas! we have 
nothing left but plaster hives upon a checker-work of 
pavement. 

It is amazing that men did not revolt against the 
confiscation of all riches and living forces for the bene- 
fit of a few privileged ones, and that such exorbitant 
fancies did not meet with obstacles upon their bloody 
road. The reason is that these wondrous lives were 
the realisation in the light of day of the dreams which 
each man dreamed at night; they were the incarnation 
of the common thought, and the nations saw themselves 
living, symbolised in those meteoric names which flame 
vividly in the night of ages. “To-day, deprived of the 
dazzling spectacle of almighty will and the high con- 


274 


checte oe oleae ob oe fo he abe ecole cece che che ce cde ce ob foe 


~~ ee 


ONE) OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


templation of the human soul, whose least desire mani- 
fested itself in incredible actions, in enormities of 
granite and bronze, the world is hopelessly and desper- 
ately weary; man is no longer represented in his 
imperial fancy. 

The story which I write and the great name of 
Cleopatra which comes into it, have led to these reflec- 
tions which sound ill in civilised ears ; but the spectacle 
of the world of antiquity is so crushing, so discouraging 
to imaginations which believe they are extreme, and to 
minds which think they have attained the utmost limits 
of fairy magnificence, that I could not help embodying 
here my complaints and my regret at not having been 
the contemporary of Sardanapalus, Tiglath-Pileser, 
Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, or even of Heliogabalus, 
Emperor of Rome and Priest of the Sun. 

I have now to describe a supreme orgy, a feast by 
the side of which Balshazzar’s would have paled, — 
one of Cleopatra’s nights. How can I, with the 
French tongue, so chaste, so icily prudish, reproduce 
the frantic madness, the vast and mighty debauch, 
which unhesitatingly mingled the purple of blood and 
wine, and the furious impulses of unsatisfied voluptu- 


ousness seeking the impossible, with all that fire of the 


275 


sho bso oe abe abe oe oe cde ce cele cece ce ab ce ce cb coe checks 


ONE) OF ‘CLEOPATRA-S NAGisS 


senses which the long Christian fast has not yet 
deadened ? 

The promised night was to be splendid. All the 
joys possible to human existence had to be crowded 
into a few hours. Meiamoun’s life was to be concen- 
trated into a powerful elixir which he could drain at a 
draught. Cleopatra willed to dazzle her voluntary 
victim and to plunge him into a whirlwind of vertigi- 
nous voluptuousness, to intoxicate, to stun him with 
the wine of orgy, so that death, although expected, 
should come unseen and not understood. 

Let me take my readers into the banquet hall. 

Our existing architecture offers few points of com- 
parison with the mighty buildings, the ruins of which 
resemble fallen mountains rather than edifices. It 
took all the exaggeration of antique life to animate and 
fill these prodigious palaces, the halls of which were so 
vast that they could have no ceiling other than the 
heavens, a magnificent roof well worthy of such 
architecture. 

The banqueting hall was of enormous and Babylon- 
ian proportions; the glance could not fathom its im- 
measurable depths. Monstrous columns, short, squat, 


sturdy enough to upbear the poles, raised their heavy, 


276 


Skéeeeeeetttretetttttttttse 
ONEFOD CHM OPA RAIS! NIGHTS 


swelling shafts upon pedestals covered with hieroglyphs, 
and supported on their massive capitals gigantic granite 
arches rising in courses like overset stairs. By each pil- 
lar a colossal basalt sphinx, crowned with the pschent, 
stretched out its head with its bearded chin, and with 
its oblique glance stared fixedly and mysteriously into 
the hall. On the second story, back of the first, the 
capitals of the columns, themselves more slender, were 
formed of four heads of women placed back to back, 
with fluted beards and the convoluted Egyptian head- 
dress. Instead of sphinxes, bull-headed idols, impas- 
sible spectators of nocturnal and furious orgies, were 
seated on stone thrones like patient guests awaiting the 
beginning of the feast. The third story, of a different 
order, with bronze elephants projecting scented water 
through their trunks, crowned the edifice, and over all 
the sky spread like a blue abyss and the inquisitive stars 
leaned upon the frieze. 

Prodigious staircases of porphyry, so polished that 
they reflected bodies like mirrors, ascended and de- 
scended on all sides and bound together these vast 
architectural masses. 

I am merely giving a rapid sketch, to give an idea 


of the tremendous building with its superhuman pro- 


277 


tttettttetttetetettttttts 
ONE OF CUBOPATRAIS NIGH FS 


portions. It would take the brush of Martin, the great 
painter of vanished enormities, and I have but a meagre 
pen-stroke instead of the apocalyptic depths of steel- 
plate engravings; but imagination must make up for 
what is wanting. Less fortunate than the painter or 
the musician, I can only present things one after 
another. 

I have spoken of the architecture alone, leaving the. 
guests aside, and even the banquet-hall I have merely 
indicated. Cleopatra and Meiamoun await us; they 
are now coming forward. 

Meiamoun wore a linen tunic embroidered with 
stars, a mantle of purple and bands in his hair like an 
Eastern potentate. Cleopatra wore a sea-green robe 
open at the sides and held together by golden bees ; on 
her fair arms two rows of great pearls; on her head.a 
golden pointed crown. Instead of a smile on her lips, 
a shadow of preoccupation slightly darkened her lovely 
face, and her brows sometimes met with a feverish 
motion. What was troubling the great queen? As for 
Meiamoun, he had the radiant and luminous appearance 
of a visionary in ecstasy. Brilliant effluvia springing 
from his temples and his brow formed a golden nimbus 


around his head, as if he were one of the twelve great 


278 


tttebetbtetcbtttedttttedtettet 
ONE OF -CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


gods of Olympus; a deep, serious joy shone in his 
eyes. He had embraced his chimera with the quick 
wings and it had not flown away; he was realising 
the aim of his life. If he were to live to the age of 
Nestor and Priam, if his veined temples were to be 
covered with white hair like that of the high priest 
of Ammon, he could feel nothing new, he could 
learn nothing more. He had obtained so much more 
than his wildest hopes that the world had nothing left 
to give him. 

Cleopatra made him sit down by her side on a throne 
supported by golden griffins, and clapped her little 
hands together. Suddenly lines of fire, sparkling 
cords, outlined every projection of the architecture ; 
the eyes of the sphinxes cast phosphorescent lightnings ; 
a burning breath poured from the mouth of the idols; 
the elephants, instead of scented water, projected glow- 
ing streams; bronze arms issued from the walls hold- 
ing lighted torches in their hands; in the carved calyx 
of the lotus flowers suddenly flamed dazzling aigrettes ; 
great bluish flames rose and fell on the brazen tripods ; 
giant chandeliers shed their light in a radiant vapour ; 
everything shone and beamed. ‘The colours of the 


prism broke and crossed in the air; the facets of the 


<iaes 


teobebhbbetbtettetttttttd thst 
ONE) JOF “‘CLEOPAT RAS *O0GEIES 


cups, the angles of the marbles and the jaspers, the 
chasing of the vases, — everything was studded with 
sparks, with gleams, or with flashes. Light poured in 
torrents, and coursed from step to step like cascades 
down the porphyry stairs. It resembled the reflec- 
tion of a conflagration in a river. If the Queen of 
Sheba had ascended those stairs, she would have lifted 
up her gown, thinking she was walking in water, as on 
the ice floor of Solomon. 

Through this brilliant mist the monstrous figures of 
the colossi, the animals, the hieroglyphs seemed to be 
animated and to live a fictitious life. “The black granite 
rams sneered ironically and clashed their golden horns, 
the idols breathed heavily through their palpitating 
nostrils. 

The orgy was at its highest point. Dishes of 
flamingoes’ tongues and livers of scarrus, murreys fed 
on human flesh and prepared with garum, peacocks’ 
brains, wild boars full of living birds, and all the mar- 
vels of a feast of antiquity multiplied a hundred-fold, 
were heaped up on the three sides of the gigantic tri- 
clinium. The wines of Crete, Massica, and Falerno 
foamed in the golden urns crowned with roses, which 


were filled by Asiatic pages on whose lovely hair the 


280 


LELLALLLALALLALALLALAL ELSA 
ONEDOF CLEOPADRA’S NIGHIS 


guests wiped their hands. Musicians playing on the 
sistra, the tympanon, on the sackbut and harps with 
twenty-one chords filled the upper bays and cast their 
harmonious melodies into the tempest of sound which 
spread over the feast. The thunder itself could not 
have been heard. 

Meiamoun, leaning on Cleopatra’s shoulder, felt his 
senses deserting him; the banquet hall was whirling 
around him like a vast architectural nightmare ; through 
the dazzling light he beheld endless perspectives and 
colonnades; new zones of porticos rose above the real 
ones and plunged into the heavens to heights Babel 
never reached. Had he not felt Cleopatra’s soft, cool 
hand in his own, he would have believed himself trans- 
ported into the world of enchantment by a Thessalian 
wizard or a Persian mage. 

Towards the end of the meal humpbacked dwarfs 
and tiny Moors performed grotesque dances and com- 
bats; then entered Egyptian and Greek maidens, rep- 
resenting the white and the black hours, dancing to 
an Jonian mode a voluptuous dance of inimitable 
perfection. 

Cleopatra herself rose from her throne, cast off her 


royal mantle, changed her starry diadem for a wreath 


281 


Lpbebebetebbtebebteth tes 
ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS 


of flowers, slipped golden crotala on her alabaster 
hands, and began to dance before Meiamoun, lost in 
ecstasy. Her fair arms, curved like the handles of a 
marble vase, cast above’ her’ head streams of sparkling 
notes, and her crotala clattered with ever-increasing 
volubility. Standing upon the golden tips of her little 
feet, she advanced rapidly and touched Meiamoun’s 
brow with a kiss; then she resumed her dance and 
fluttered around him, sometimes throwing herself back, 
her head down, her eyes half-closed, her arms limp, her 
hair undone and hanging, like a Bacchante of Mzenalus 
inspired by her god; sometimes quick, lively, laughing, 
butterfly-like, indefatigable, and more capricious in her 
meanderings than a bee in pursuit of honey. She 
expressed everything, —heart’s love, sensual voluptu- 
ousness, ardent passion, inexhaustible, fresh youth, the 
promise of future happiness. 

The modest stars had ceased to look. Their chaste, 
golden eyes could not have borne such a sight; even 
the sky was effaced, and a dim, fiery vapour covered 
the hall. 

Cleopatra returned and sat down by Meiamoun. 
The night was waning; the last of the dark hours was 


about to fly; a bluish light penetrated with uncertain 


282 


kebeebebeetbeceekedesvueccest 
OND IOF CLEOPATREAOS “INDI GATS 
motion into this tumult of red light like a moonbeam 
falling within a furnace. The upper arcades became 
bluer; the day was dawning. 

Meiamoun took the horn vase held out to him by an 
Ethiopian slave of sinister countenance. The vase con- 
tained a poison so violent that it would have burst any 
other vessel. 

Casting his life to his mistress in one last glance, he 
bore to his lips the fatal cup in which the poisoned 
drink was boiling and hissing. Cleopatra turned pale 
and placed her hand on Meiamoun’s arm to restrain 
him. His courage touched her; she was just about to 
say, ‘ Live on to love me; I will it,’ when the sound 
of clarions was heard. Four heralds rode into the ban- 
quet hall. They were officers of Mark Antony, pre- 
ceding their master by a few steps. Silently she let go 
of Meiamoun’s arm. A sunbeam played upon her 
brow as if to replace her absent diadem. 

“You see yourself the time has come. It is day, the 
hour when fair dreams vanish,” said Meiamoun. Then 
at one draught he emptied the fatal cup and fell as if 
struck by lightning. Cleopatra bowed her head, and 
within her cup a burning tear, the only one she ever 


shed, joined the melted pearl. 


283 


dhedhcb ook ch chk bob bbb cbecbe cbeeheecbech ahah 
ONE) (OF -CLEOPATRA'S (NIGHTS 


‘¢ By Hercules, my lovely queen, though I travelled 
fast, I see | have come too late,’ said Mark Antony, 
as he entered the banquet hall. ‘Supper is over — 
but what is this body lying on the flags ?”’ 

“¢ Oh, nothing,” said Cleopatra, smiling. “A poison 
I was trying; to use if Augustus should take me pris- 
oner. Will you not, my dear lord, sit down beside me 


and watch these Greek buffoons dance ? ”’ 


284 


King Candaules 


: 4) » ney fo 
bee Rh NW 


a 
ener es 
————s 


Cee. amma 


ilashesd gst 


Hi)! 
re 
bun 

it 

AL) Vad, 


IVE hundred years after the War of Troy 
and seven hundred and fifteen years before 
the Christian era, there was a great festival 
in Sardis: King Candaules was being mar- 

ried. ‘The people felt that sort of joyous anxiety and 
aimless emotion inspired in masses by any event, al- 
though it affects them in no wise, and occurs in higher 
spheres which they will never approach. 

Since Phoebus Apollo, standing on his quadriga, had 
gilded with his beams the summit of Mount T’molus, 
fertile in saffron, the worthy inhabitants of Sardis had 
been coming and going, ascending and descending the 
marble stairs which connect the city with the Pactolus, 
the rich river which Midas, by bathing in it, filled with 
golden sands. So important and solemn did these 
worthy citizens look that it would have been thought 
each of them was himself being married. 

Groups formed on the Agora, on the steps of the 


temples, under the porticos. At every street corner 


287 


titebeeeteettetttbttttteted 
KINGRGAN DAUR 


were met women dragging by the hand poor children 
whose short steps ill accorded with the maternal impa- 
tience and curiosity. “The maidens hastened to the 
fountains, their jars poised on their heads or upheld by 
their white arms as by natural handles, to supply the 
household with water in order to be free when the mar- 
riage procession should pass. “The washerwomen were 
hastily folding up the scarcely dried tunics and chlamyds, 
and piled them on chariots drawn by mules. Slaves 
turned the grindstones without the overseer having to 
tickle their bare shoulders, marked with cicatrices, with 
his whip. Sardis was hastening to be done with the 
daily cares which cannot be dispensed with on account 
of any festival. 

The road to be traversed by the procession had been 
strewn with fine yellow sand. At intervals there arose 
to heaven odorous vapours of cinnamon and nard from 
brazen tripods. “These were the only vapours that 
marred the purity of the blue sky; the clouds of a wed- 
ding day should be those only produced by the burning 
of perfumes. Branches of myrtles and of rose laurel 
strewed the ground, and on the walls of the palaces 
were displayed, suspended from bronze rings, tapestries 


on which the needles of industrious captives, mingling 


288 


bebkbttetttttettetttettse 
ISGLEN Gets CaN) ATURE. S 


wool, silver, and gold, had represented various scenes 
of the history of the gods and heroes: Ixion embracing 
the cloud; Diana surprised in the bath by Actzon; 
the shepherd Paris, judge at the competition of beauty 
which took place on Mount Ida between Hera with 
the snowy arms, Athene with the sea-green eyes, and 
Aphrodite wearing the magical cestus; the old men 
of Troy rising as Helen passed through the Scaan 
gates, a subject drawn from the poem of the blind 
man of Meles. Many had exposed by preference 
scenes drawn from the life of Hercules the Theban, 
a delicate flattery intended for Candaules, who was a 
Heraclid, the descendant of Hercules through Alczus. 
Others had been satisfied to adorn the threshold of 
their dwellings with garlands and wreaths as a mark 
of rejoicing. 

Among the groups stationed from the entrance of 
the royal palace to the city gate through which the 
young queen was to enter, the conversation turned 
naturally on the beauty of the bride, the renown of 
which filled Asia, and on the character of the husband, 
who, without being quite eccentric, seemed neverthe- 
less difficult to understand from the ordinary point 


of view. 


19 289 


ttetettteettetttettettted 
KING CANDAULES 


Nyssia, the daughter of the satrap Megabasus, was 
endowed with marvellous beauty of features and perfec- 
tion of form; at least this is what the slaves who served 
her and the friends who accompanied her to the bath 
reported, for no man could boast of knowing aught 
more of Nyssia than the colour of her veil and the ele- 
gant folds which in spite of herself she imparted to the 
soft stuffs that draped her statue-like form. 

Barbarians do not share the ideas of the Greeks on 
modesty. While the young men of Achaia do not 
scruple to exhibit in the sunshine of the stadium their 
torsos rubbed with oil, and the Spartan virgins dance 
unveiled before the altar of Diana, the youth of Perse- 
polis, Ecbatana, and Bactra, prizing more highly modesty 
of the body than modesty of the soul, consider impure 
and reprehensible the liberties which Greek manners 
accord to the pleasure of the eye, and consider a woman 
shameless who allows men to see more than the tip of 
her toe, scarcely brushing aside, as she walks, the dis- 
creet folds of her long tunic. 

In spite of this mystery, or rather, because of this 
mystery, Nyssia’s reputation had rapidly spread through- 
out Lydia, and had become so great that it had reached 


even Candaules, although kings are usually the least 


290 


wll able als ole ol el ale als alls ole ab ba eb cb ale ale ono els cbs ae bls cbrade 
KING*GCANDAUWEES 


well-informed people in their realm, living, as they do, 
like the gods, in a sort of cloud which conceals from 
them the knowledge of terrestrial things. 

The Eupatrids of Sardis, who had hoped that the 
young King might choose a wife from their family, 
the hetaire of Athens, Samos, Miletus, and Cyprus, 
the lovely slaves who had come from the banks of the 
Indus, the fair-haired girls brought at great expense 
from the country of Cimmerian fogs, took great care 
never to utter before Candaules a single word which in 
any way might refer to Nyssia; the bravest as regarded 
beauty hesitated at the thought of a rivalry which they 
felt must be unequal. 

And yet no one in Sardis, or even in Lydia, had seen 
this formidable adversary ; no one, save a single being, 
who since that time had kept his lips as closed on the 
subject as if Harpocrates, the God of Silence, had 
sealed them with his finger. This was Gyges, the 
captain of the guards of Candaules. One day Gyges, 
full of vague projects and emotions, was wandering on 
the hills of Bactra, whither his master had sent him on 
an important secret errand. He was thinking of the 
intoxication of almighty power, of the pleasure of 


trampling the purple with golden sandals, of placing 


291 


dhabcbeadeok ch deck ech etic decd cectecdecheeh hhh 


KING AGAN DAD BES 


the diadem on the head of the loveliest. “These 
thoughts made his blood surge in his veins, and as if 
following the flight of his dreams, he spurred with 
excited heel the foam-flecked flanks of his Numidian 
steed. 

The weather, calm at first, nad become as stormy as 
the warrior’s soul, and Boreas, his hair stiff with the 
ice of Thrace, his cheeks swollen, his arms crossed on 
his chest, was driving on the rain clouds with great 
blows of his wings. 

A band of young girls gathering flowers in the coun- 
try, terrified by the storm, were hastening back to the 
city, bearing their perfumed harvest in the folds of their 
tunics. Seeing a stranger arriving on horseback, they 
had, according to the custom of the Bactrians, thrown 
their mantles over their faces; but at the moment 
when Gyges passed by one, whose proud bearing and 
richer vestments seemed to mark her as the mistress 
of the company, a sudden gust of wind had blown aside 
her veil, and whirling it in the air like a feather, had 
carried it away so far that it was impossible to recover 
it. It was Nyssia, the daughter of Megabasus, who 
thus stood with uncovered face before Gyges, the cap- 


tain of the guards of King Candaules. Was it indeed 


292 


cho bee che abe cece brah tectecte cece cb adeeb obo cbe cde oe ea 
KING;/CANDAULES 


merely the breath of Boreas which had caused this ac- 
cident, or did Eros, who takes pleasure in troubling 
souls, amuse himself in cutting the band which held 
the protecting tissue? However it may be, Gyges 
remained motionless at the aspect of this Medusa of 
beauty, and the folds of Nyssia’s robe had long disap- 
peared under the city gate before Gyges had thought 
of resuming his way. Although nothing justified his 
supposition, he felt that he had just seen the satrap’s 
daughter, and the meeting, which had almost the char- 
acter of an apparition, agreed so well with the thoughts 
that filled his mind at that moment, that he could not 
help believing it an act of Fate, an event planned by 
the gods. That was the brow on which he would 
have wished to place a diadem,— what other more 
worthy of it? But what probability was there that 
Gyges would ever have a throne to share? 

He had not attempted to follow up this adventure 
and to make certain that it was really the daughter 
of Megabasus whose mysterious face Chance, the 
great magician, had revealed to him. Nyssia had 
vanished so swiftly that it would have been impossible 
for him to find her again. But, besides, he had 


been dazzled, fascinated, thunderstruck, rather than 


293 


kbhbebhbhth bee httee td hh dd detest 
KING CANDAULES 


charmed by her marvellous appearance, by her wondrous 
beauty. 

Yet her image, scarce seen for a moment, was en- 
graved on his heart as deeply as the features which 
sculptors draw on ivory with a red-hot graver. In vain 
he had tried his best to eftace it, for his love for Nyssia 
filled him with secret terror. Perfection carried to 
such a point is always troubling; women so similar to 
deities must be fatal to weak mortals; they are created 
for celestial amours, and men, even the most coura- 
geous, venture but tremblingly into such loves. So no 
hope had sprung up in the soul of Gyges, borne down 
and discouraged beforehand by the feeling of impossi- 
bility. Ere he could venture to address Nyssia, he felt 
as if he must strip the sky of its stars, rob Phoebus of 
his radiant crown; forgetting that women give them- 
selves only to those who do not deserve them, and that 
the best way to be loved by them is to act as if one 
sought their hatred. 

Since that day, the roses of joy no longer bloomed 
upon his cheeks. By day he was sad, gloomy, and 
seemed to walk alone in his dream like a mortal who 
has beheld a goddess; by night he was tormented by 


dreams that showed him Nyssia seated by his side on 


2.94. 


LEELA ALLALAAALEALALL ALL LAL ELS 
KING VGANID AU PES 


purple cushions, between the golden griffins of the 
royal throne. 

So Gyges, the only one who could have spoken of 
Nyssia from actual experience, having said nothing, 
the people of Sardis were reduced to conjectures, and 
it must be acknowledged that these were most strange 
and fabulous. 

Nyssia’s beauty, thanks to the veils which concealed 
it, had become a sort of myth, of canvas, of poem, 
which each embroidered according to his taste. 

‘If what is stated is true,” lisped a young debauchee 
of Athens, his hand resting on the shoulder of an 
Asiatic child, “neither Plangon nor Archenassa nor 
Thais can be compared with this barbaric marvel; and 
yet I find it difficult to believe that she is the equal of 
Theano of Colophon, whom I purchased for one night 
at the price of the gold she could carry off when 
plunging her white arms up to her shoulders in my 
cedar coffer.” 

“‘ By the side of her,’’ added a Eupatrid, who pre- 
tended to be better informed about everything, “by the 
side of her the daughter of Coelus and the Sea would 
look like a Theban servant.” 


“You are speaking blasphemy, and although Aphro- 


295 


shecbe be ooo ob cde ceo tec 


ded ceckdk de deck hob bbe 
ING) CAN DA UDES 


K 


dite is a good and kind goddess, take care lest you 
draw down her wrath upon you.” 

“¢ By Hercules !— which is an oath of some weight 
in a city governed by his descendants, —I do not take 
back a single word.” 

“You have seen her, then? ”’ 

“No; but I have a slave who formerly belonged to 
Nyssia, and who has told me many things about her.” 

‘Ts it true,” asked in a childish way a doubtful- 
looking woman, whose pale-rose tunic, rouged cheeks, 
and hair shining with essences announced hopeless pre- 
tensions to a youthfulness long since vanished, ‘is it 
true that Nyssia has two pupils in each eye? It must 
be very ugly, I should think, and I cannot understand 
how Candaules should fall in love with such a mon- 
strosity, while in Sardis and Lydia there are numbers 
of women whose eyes are irreproachable.” 

Saying these words, with all sorts of airs and affec- 
tations, Lamia cast a significant glance at a little metal 
mirror which she drew from her bosom, and which 
enabled her to restore to their place the curls deranged 
by the importunate breeze. 

‘‘As regards the double pupil, that strikes me as 


an old-wives’ tale,’ said the well-informed Eupatrid ; 
) } Pp 


296 


dete heck heh hob bd cechcbcbdb deeb bbe 
OLN Gs GRReNGD ATC EARS 


“but it is certain that Nyssia’s glance is so piercing 
that she can see through walls. In comparison with 
her, lynxes are short-sighted.” 

“¢ How can a serious man talk such nonsense?” in- 
terrupted a citizen, whose bald head and long white 
beard which he stroked while speaking gave him an air 
of philosophical importance and sagacity. ‘ The truth 
is that the daughter of Megabasus does not naturally 
have better sight than you or I, only the Egyptian 
priest T’houtmosis, who knows so many wondrous 
secrets, has bestowed on her the mysterious stone 
found in dragons’ heads, which, as is well known, 
enables those who possess it to see through the most 
opaque shadows and bodies. Nyssia always wears 
that stone in her belt or her bracelet, — that is the 
explanation of her remarkable sight.” 

The citizen’s explanation seemed more natural to 
the members of the group whose conversation I am 
attempting to relate, and the views of Lamia and the 
patrician were rejected as improbable. 


> 


“In any case,” resumed Theano’s lover, “ we shall 
be able to judge for ourselves, for it seems to me 
that I hear the clarions sounding afar, and without 


having Nyssia’s sight I can see yonder the heralds 


297 


tebbbbbbbbbtbtbbbbbdddhel 
KING CANDAULES 


advancing with palms in their hands announcing the 
arrival of the wedding procession and forcing the 
crowd back.” | 

At this news, which rapidly spread, strong men used 
their elbows, to get to the front row; agile youths, 
embracing the shafts of pillars, endeavoured to climb 
to the capitals and sit there; others, at the cost of 
skinning their knees against the bark, managed to 
perch themselves comfortably enough in the elbows of 
the branches of trees; women placed their little chil- 
dren on one shoulder, advising them to cling closely to 
their necks ; those who were fortunate enough to live 
in the street through which Candaules and Nyssia were 
to pass, looked from their roofs, or, raising themselves 
on their elbows, left for a moment the pillows which 
supported them. 

A murmur of satisfaction and relief ran theca the 
crowd, which had been waiting for many hours already, 
and the beams of the noonday sun were beginning to 
make themselves felt. 

Warriors heavily armed with cuirasses of buffalo- 
skin covered with plates of metal, helmets adorned 
with aigrettes of horse-hair dyed red, knemids lined 


with tin, baldrics studded with nails, blazoned bucklers, 


298 


KING CANDAULES 


and brazen swords, marched behind a row of trumpet- 
ers who were blowing hard in their long tubes that 
shone in the sunshine. The steeds of these warriors, 
as white as the feet of Thetis, might have served, by 
the nobility of their gait and their thorough breeding, 
as models for those which Phidias carved later on the 
metope of the Parthenon. 

At the head of this troop rode Gyges, well named, 
for in Lydian ‘“‘ Gyges”’ means “ handsome.” _ His feat- 
ures, almost absolutely regular, seemed cut out of 
marble, so pale was he, for he had just recognised in 
Nyssia, although she was covered. with the veil of 
brides, the woman whose face the treason of the wind 
had exposed to his looks by the walls of Bactra. 

‘‘ Handsome Gyges seems very sad,” said the maid- 
ens. ‘What proud beauty has disdained his love? 
Or has some one whom he has neglected had a spell 
cast on him by a Thessalian witch. Can the magic 
ring, which he found, it is said, within the depths of 
a forest, within the flanks of a bronze horse, have lost 
its virtue and ceased to render its master invisible? 
Has it suddenly betrayed him to the astonished glance 
of some worthy husband who thought himself alone in 


his conjugal chamber ? ”’ 


299 


th robe ch ob che abe abe ce che ceeds chee oe chee ob chee abe chee 
KING CANDAULES 


‘¢ Perhaps he has lost his talents and his drachmas at 
the game of Palamedes, or else he is annoyed at not 
having won the prize at the Olympic Games. He 
reckoned greatly upon his horse Hyperion.” 

None of these conjectures was correct. People 
never do guess the truth. 

Next to the battalion commanded by Gyges came 
young boys crowned with myrtles, who playing upon 
ivory lyres with a bow, accompanied an epithalamium 
in the Lydian mode. ‘They wore rose-coloured tunics 
embroidered with silver threads, and their hair hung 
down on their shoulders in thick curls. They pre- 
ceded the bearers of presents, robust slaves whose half- 
nude bodies exhibited muscles which the most vigorous 
athlete might have envied. 

On litters borne by two, four, or more men, accord- 
ing to the weight of the objects, were placed enormous 
brazen cups carved by the most famous artists; vases 
of gold and silver, their sides adorned with bassi-relievt, 
their graceful handles covered with chimeras, foliage, 
and nude women; magnificent ewers for the washing 
of the feet of illustrious guests; flagons encrusted with 
precious stones and holding the rarest of perfumes, — 


Arabian myrrh, Indian cinnamon, Persian nard, Smyrna 


300 


che ooh ae os oh oh a oh abe cabecde doa oe obec oe oh deh 


obs obs obs obs obs abe ob 
RPL N Gree Gree NY 1) AS Ue S 

essence of roses; perfume burners, the covers pierced 
with holes; coffers of cedar and ivory of marvellous 
workmanship, opening by secret methods unknown to 
any but the inventor and containing bracelets of gold 
of Ophir, necklaces of the finest orient pearls, clasps 
studded with rubies and carbuncles; toilet cases con- 
taining yellow sponges, curling-irons, sea-wolves’ teeth 
for polishing the nails, the green rouge of Egypt, 
which turns the loveliest red on touching the skin, 
powders to darken the eyebrows and eyelids, —in a 
word, all that feminine coquetry can invent in the way 
of refinement. On other litters were borne purple robes 
of the finest wool, and of every shade, from the carna- 
tion of the rose to the deep red of the juice of the 
grape; calasiris of Canopean linen which are thrown 
white into the dyers’ vats, and which, thanks to the 
different mordants with which they are impregnated, 
emerge diapered with the most brilliant colours; tunics 
brought from the fabulous country of Serica, at the 
very extremity of the world, made with thread spun by 
a worm that lives on leaves, and so fine that they might 
have been drawn through a ring. 

Ethiopians, shining like jet, their heads bound with 


cords, so that the veins of their brows should not burst 


301 


LEELELELELLLSLALELAL ALLELES 
KOI NGeGAWN DAWES 


under the efforts they made to support their burden, 
carried in great pomp a colossal statue of Hercules, the 
ancestor of Candaules, made of gold and ivory, with 
the club, the Nemzan lion’s skin, the three golden 
apples of the gardens of the Hesperides, and all the 
consecrated attributes. 

The statues of the celestial Venus and of Venus 
Genetrix, carved by the best pupils of the school of 
Sicyon in that marble of Paros whose brilliant trans- 
parency seems made on purpose to represent the ever 
youthful flesh of the immortal goddesses, followed the 
efigy of Hercules, whose powerful contours and mus- 
cular forms brought out still more strongly the harmony 
and elegance of their proportions. 

A painting by Bularchus, bought for its weight in 
gold by Candaules, painted upon a panel of the wood 
of the female larch and representing the defeat of the 
Magnetes, excited general admiration by the perfection 
of the drawing, the accuracy of the attitudes, and the 
harmony of the colour, although the artist had made 
use of the four primitive colours only, — white, Attic 
ochre, red earth of Sinope, and atrament. ‘The young 
King loved painting and sculpture rather more than 


beseems a monarch, and he often spent a year’s in- 


302 


tbhbbbbbbbbbtb tbh bt 
K 

come from one of his cities in the purchase of a costly 

painting. 

Camels and dromedaries with magnificent housings 
and trappings, bestridden by musicians playing on cym- 
bals and tympanons, bore the golden pins, the cords 
and stuffs of the tent intended for the young queen 
when she went travelling or hunting. 

On any other occasion these splendours would have 
delighted the people of Sardis, but their curiosity had 
another object, and this portion of the procession was 
watched with some impatience. “Ihe maidens, wav- 
ing burning torches and scattering handfuls of crocus 
flowers, were not even looked at. The thought of 
beholding Nyssia filled every mind. 

At last Candaules appeared riding on a car drawn by 
four horses, — handsome and spirited as those of the 
Sun, covering their golden bits with white foam, shak- 
ing their purple tressed manes, and held in with diffi- 
culty by the driver, who stood by the prince and leaned 
back to secure a greater purchase. 

Candaules was a vigorous young man, who fully 
justified his Herculean descent. His head was joined 
to his shoulders by a bull neck; his black, lustrous 


hair curled in short, rebellious curls, and in places cov- 


393 


LEELA AELELLLALALAELALLAS ELS 
KING CANDAULES 


ered the band of the royal diadem. His small, straight 
ears were red; his brow was broad and full, though 
somewhat low like the brows of the people of an- 
tiquity ; his glance, full of softness and melancholy ; his 
oval cheeks, his chin with its gentle, easy curve, his 
mouth with half-opened lips, his athletic arm ending 
in a woman’s hand, marked a poetic rather than a war- 
like nature; and indeed, though he was brave and 
skilful in every bodily exercise, breaking in a horse as 
cleverly as one of the Lapitha, swimming across the 
rivers which flow from the mountains swollen by the 
melting snows, capable of bending the bow of Odysseus 
and of bearing the buckler of Achilles, he did not seem 
to be preoccupied by conquest ; and war, so attractive 
to young sovereigns, had but mediocre attractions for 
him. He was satisfied with repelling the attacks of 
ambitious neighbours, without attempting to extend his 
possessions. He preferred to build palaces and to 
advise his architects, to collect statues and paintings 
by old and new masters. He possessed works by 
Telephanes of Sicyon, Cleanthes and Ardices of Corinth, 
Hygiemon, Dinias, Charmadas, Eumarus, and Cimon, 
— some mere drawings, others coloured or in mono- 


chrome. It was even said that Candaules had, for- 


304 


desde oo ob dee ob debe ccd cb abeckoeecke de deck 
KING CANDAULES 


getful of princely decency, not disdained to handle 
with his royal hands the sculptor’s chisel and the 
sponge of the painter of encaustics. 

But why do we dwell on Candaules? The reader, 
no doubt, like the people of Sardis, cares only for 
Nyssia. 

The daughter of Megabasus was seated upon an ele- 
phant with wrinkled skin and huge ears like standards, 
that advanced with heavy but swift step like a vessel 
amid waves. Its tusks and trunk were bound with 
silver rings, strings of huge pearls wound around its 
pillar-like legs. On its back, covered by a magnificent 
Persian carpet with variegated designs, rose a sort of 
howdah covered with chased gold and studded with 
onyx, sardonyx, chrysolite, lapis-lazuli, and opals. In 
this howdah was seated the young queen, so covered 
with gems that she dazzled the eyes. A mitre shaped 
like a helmet on which pearls formed designs and letters 
after the Oriental fashion, covered her head; her ears, 
pierced in the lobes and on the edges, were laden with 
ornaments in the shape of cups, crescents, and balls; 
necklaces of open-work gold and silver balls hung in 
triple rows around her neck and fell upon her bosom 


with metallic rustlings; emerald serpents with eyes of 


20 305 


bhbbbbhbbbbbetbbbebtb toe 
KING CANDAULES 


rubies and topazes wound around her arms, biting their 
own tails. These bracelets were connected by chains 
of precious stones, and their weight was so great that 
two maids, kneeling on either side of Nyssia, supported 
her elbows. She wore a dress embroidered by the 
workmen of Tyre with brilliant patterns of gold leaves 
and diamond fruits, and over it a short Persepolis tunic, 
which came down almost to the knee, with sleeves slit 
open and held together by sapphire clasps. Around 
her waist she had a sash made of narrow stuff marked 
with stripes and designs that formed symmetrical 
patterns as they were brought together by the arrange- 
ment of the folds, which Indian girls alone know how 
to manage. Her drawers of byssus— which the 
Phoenicians call syndon— were fastened above the 
ankles by anklets adorned with balls of silver and gold, 
and completed a costume of barbaric richness absolutely 
opposed to Greek taste. But alas! a saffron-coloured 
flammeum closely masked the face of Nyssia, who 
appeared troubled, although she was veiled, at the sight 
of so many glances fixed upon her, and who often 
signed to the slaves placed behind her to lower the 
parasol of ostrich-feathers so that she might be the 


better concealed from the eager crowd. 


306 


KING CANDAULES 


In vain had Candaules begged; he had been unable 
to induce her to throw off her veil even on this solemn 
occasion. The young barbarian had refused to pay to 
her people the welcome of beauty. Great was the 
disappointment. Lamia maintained that Nyssia dared 
not unveil for fear of showing her double eyes; the 
young debauchee was convinced that Theano of Colo- 
phon was more beautiful than the Queen of Sardis ; and 
Gyges sighed when he saw Nyssia, after her elephant 
had knelt down, descend upon the bowed heads and 
the arms of the slaves, as down a living staircase, 
to the threshold of the royal dwelling, in which 
the elegance of Greek architecture was mingled 
with the fancifulness and the enormities of Asiatic 


taste, 


II 


More fortunate than the Sardians, who, after a day’s 
waiting, were obliged to return home reduced as before 
to mere conjectures, I, as a poet, have a right to draw 
aside the saffron-coloured flammeum which veiled the 
young bride. 

Nyssia was really more beautiful than she was said 


to be: it seemed as though nature had intended, in 


397 


LEELEALELELSEAEALALAEALLLLE LAS 
KOEN GaICPALN DTA rs 


creating her, to use-her power to the utmost and to be 
pardoned all her gropings and all her failures. It seemed 
as though, moved by a feeling of jealousy of the future 
marvels of the Greek sculptors, she also had tried to 
model a statue and to show that she was still sovereign 
mistress in matters of plastics. 

The grain of the snow, the micaceous brilliancy of 
Parian marble, the shining pulp of the flowers of the 
balsam, convey but an imperfect notion of the ideal 
substance of which Nyssia was formed. Her fine, 
delicate flesh was interpenetrated by the light, and the 
contours were modelled transparently in suave, har- 
monious, rhythmic lines. In her different aspects she 
was sunny or rosy, like the odoriferous body of a 
goddess, and seemed to radiate light and life. The 
world of perfections contained in the noble oval of her 
chaste face no man can ever describe, no painter 
reproduce with his brush, no sculptor with his chisel, 
no poet with his style, even were they Praxiteles, 
Apelles, or Mimnermus. On her smooth brow, shaded 
by waves of ruddy hair, like molten electron, and 
powdered with golden filings according to the Baby- 
lonian fashion, reigned, as on a jasper throne, the 


unchangeable serenity of perfect beauty. 


308 


oe eFfe CFO ee ere ete ere eve Te US oe 


IT INIGe, CAIN: Dy ALL Res 
As for her eyes, if they did not fully bear out what 


popular credulity believed of them, they were at least 
wondrously strange. Brown eyebrows, the extremities 
of which were gracefully fined away like the ends of 
Cupid’s bow, and joined by a line of hair after the 
Asiatic fashion, long fringes of silky, shadowy lashes, 
contrasted strangely with two sapphire stars playing on 
a sky of bluish silver which formed the eyeballs. “che 
eyeballs, the pupil of which was darker than ink, showed 
singular variations of tint in the iris. They passed 
from sapphire to turquoise, from turquoise to aqua- . 
marine, from aquamarine to yellow amber, and some- 
times like a limpid lake the bottom of which is strewn 
with gems, allowed to be seen at unfathomable depths 
sands of gold and diamonds on which green filaments 
wriggled and twisted like emerald serpents. In these 
eyes with phosphorescent flashes or beams of dead 
suns, the splendour of vanished worlds, the glories of 
eclipsed Olympus, seemed to have concentrated their 
reflections. On looking at them eternity was recalled, 
and one was seized with vertigo as when bending over 
the edge of infinity. 

The expression of these extraordinary eyes was no 


less changeable than their colour. Sometimes the eye- 


329 


LLELLL LEE E EAE hbk 
KING CANDAULES 


tids, half opening like the gates of the celestial dwell- 
ings, called one into elysiums of light, ineffable azure 
and felicity, promising the realisation of all one’s dreams | 
of happiness twenty-fold and a hundred-fold, as though 
they had read the secret thoughts of one’s soul. At 
other times, as impenetrable as the bucklers composed 
of seven superimposed plates of the hardest metals, the 
glance fell against them weak and like blunted arrows. 
With a mere bending of the brow, with one turn of 
the eye more tremendous than Jove’s lightning, they 
hurled one from the top of the most ambitious ascents 
into such deep nothingness that it was impossible to 
rise again. “[yphon himself, who turns over under 
Etna, could not have raised the mountains of disdain 
with which they overwhelmed one. ‘They made one 
feel that even if a man possessed, in the course of a life 
of a thousand Olympiads, the beauty of the fair son of 
Leto, the genius of Orpheus, the boundless power of 
the Assyrian kings, the treasures of the Cabiri, the 
Telchines and the Dactyli, gods of subterranean riches, 
it would be hopeless to induce them to assume a softer 
expression. At other times they were filled with such 
eloquent, emotional, and persuasive languor, with such 


penetrating effluvia and radiations, that the ice of Nestor 


310 


ketbettttbetetttttttbthese 
KUN GA GAN DADAL ES 


and Priam would have melted at their aspect as the 
waxen wings of Icarus on his approach to the burning 
zones. For a single one of these glances, a man would 
have imbrued his hands in the blood of his host, scat- 
tered to the four winds of heaven his father’s ashes, 
overthrown the sacred images of the gods, and stolen 
fire from heaven like Prometheus, the sublime thief. 

Yet their most common expression, I must say, was 
one of inflexible chastity, of sublime coldness, of igno- 
rance of all possibilities of human passion, by the side 
of which the moon-like eyes of Phoebe and the sea- 
green eyes of Athene would have appeared more las- 
civious and alluring than those of a Babylonian maiden 
sacrificing to the goddess Mylitta within the roped-in 
space of the court of Succoth-Benoth. ‘Their uncon- 
querable virginity seemed to defy love. 

Nyssia’s cheek, which no human glance had profaned 
save that of Gyges on the day when her veil flew 
away, had a bloom of youth, a tender pallor, a delicacy 
of grain and down, of which not the faintest idea can be 
formed from the faces of our women, which are always 
exposed to the air and sunshine. Maidenly modesty 
flushed them with a rose such as might be produced by 


a drop of red essence within a cupful of milk; and 


311 


HEELALAL LES AAE eet ttttttstt 
KINGYCANDAUTVES 


when no emotion coloured them, they had silvery re- 
flections, warm gleams, like alabaster lighted from 
within. ‘The light was her lovely soul seen through 
her transparent flesh. 

A bee would have mistaken her mouth for a flower, 
so perfect was its shape, the corners so exquisitely 
arched, the redness so living and rich; the gods them- 
selves would have come down from their Olympic 
dwellings to touch it with their lips moist with immor- 
tality, had not the jealousy of the goddesses prevented 
them. Happy indeed the air that breathed through 
that purple and those pearls, that dilated the lovely 
nostrils so exquisitely formed and shaded with rosy 
tints like the interior of the shells cast by the sea on the 
shores of Cyprus at the feet of Venus Anadyomene! 
But that is just the way many delights are granted to 
things unable to understand them. What lover does 
not long to be the tunic worn by his beloved, or the 
water in which she bathes? 

Such was Nyssia, if I may apply the words to so 
vague a description of her beauty. If our dull Northern 
idioms had the warm liberty, the burning enthusiasm 
of Sir-Hasirim, perhaps by means of comparisons, by 


calling up to the reader’s mind recollections of flowers, 


312 


bob bbe bbb dhe 
KING CANDAULES 


perfumes, music, and sunshine, by evoking by the magic 
of words all that creation contains of graceful and 
charming ideas, I might have managed to give some 
notion of Nyssia’s appearance. But Solomon alone 
may compare the nose of a beautiful woman to the 
tower of Lebanon that looks towards Damascus. 
And yet what more important in the world than a 
beautiful woman’s nose? If Helen, the fair Tyndaris, 
had been flat-nosed, would the war of Troy ever have 
taken place, and if Sem Rami had not had a perfectly 
regular profile, would she ever have seduced the old 
monarch of Nin-Nevet, and bound on her brow the 
pearl mitre, mark of supreme power! 

Although Candaules had had brought to his palaces 
the loveliest slaves of Sour, Askelon, Sakkes, Razaf, 
the most famous courtesans of Ephesus, Pergamos, 
Smyrna, and Cyprus, he was completely fascinated by 
Nyssia’s charms. He had not even suspected hitherto 
the existence of such perfection. Free, as her hus- 
band, to enjoy the contemplation of her beauty, he felt 
himself dazzled and seized with vertigo, like a man who 
bends over an abyss or stares at the sun. He experi- 
enced a sort of delirium of possession, like the priest 


intoxicated by the god which fills him; all other 


SuS 


abe oe olbs obs ob obs ole obs che ale obs elo obe obo oly obs ole obs ole obo ob of obo ole 


KD Nt Gt AGAIN DA CF Ey 


thoughts vanished from his soul, and the universe 
appeared to him only as a blurred mist wherein shone 
the brilliant figure of Nyssia. His happiness turned 
into ecstasy, his life into madness. At times his 
felicity terrified him. ‘To be merely a wretched king, 
the distant descendant of a hero become a god by dint 
of labours, merely a common man, made of flesh and 
bones, and, without having done anything to deserve it, 
without even having, like his ancestor, killed the hydra 
or the lion, — to enjoy a happiness of which Zeus with 
the ambrosial hair would scarce be worthy, master 
of Olympus though he was! He felt in some sort 
ashamed to keep so rich a treasure to himself, to rob 
the world of such a marvel, to be the scaly, clawed 
dragon that guarded the living type of lovers’, sculp- 
tors’, and poets’ ideals, all they had dreamed in their 
aspirations, their sorrows, their despair, — he, Candaules, 
the poor tyrant of Sardis, who had scarce a few miser- 
able coffers filled with pearls, a few cisterns full of gold 
pieces, and thirty or forty thousand slaves, bought or 
taken in war! 

His happiness was too great for him, and the 
strength which he no doubt would have found to bear 


up under misfortune failed him in felicity. His joy 


314 


che os ae ohooh abe cho oe cho oe oe ook be cho oe be ae abe eae oe abe oe 
KING CANDAULES 


overflowed his soul like water in a vase on the fire, 
and in the exasperation of his enthusiasm for Nyssia, 
he had come to the point of desiring that she were less 
timid and less modest, for it pained him to keep to 
himself the secret of such beauty. 

“©Oh!” he said to himself, during the deep reveries 
which filled up all the time which he did not spend 
near the queen, ‘what a strange fate is mine! I am 
wretched at what would make the happiness of any 
other husband. Nyssia refuses to leave the retreat of 
the harem, and, in her barbaric modesty, to raise her veil 
for any one but me. And yet with what intoxication 
of pride would my love see her radiant and sublime, 
standing at the top of the royal steps, dominating my 
prostrate people, and eclipsing like the dawn of day all 
the pale stars which, as long as night lasted, believed 
they were suns! You proud Lydians who believe 
yourselves beautiful, you owe it only to Nyssia’s mod- 
esty that you do not appear, even to your lovers, as 
ugly as the oblique-eyed, thick-lipped slaves of Nahasi 
and Kush. If but once she were to traverse the streets 
of Sardis with uncovered face, in vain you would drag 
at the folds of your admirers’ tunics; none of them 


would turn their heads, or if they did, they would ask 


Bs 


HLALEALELALAEALAN ALL ALL ALLE LS 
KING’ GAN DAU TES 


your name, so completely would they have forgotten 
you. They would cast themselves under the silver 
wheels of her car to enjoy the delight of being crushed 
by her, like the devotees of the Indus, who pave with 
their bodies the road traversed by their idol. And you, 
you goddesses whom Paris Alexander judged, if Nyssia 
had competed not one of you would have won the 
apple ; not even Aphrodite, in spite of her cestus and 
her promise to make the shepherd beloved by the most 
beautiful woman in the world. 

“To think that such beauty is not immortal, alas! 
and that the years will spoil those divine lines, that 
admirable hymn of form, that poem of which the 
strophes are contours and which no one on earth has 
read or is to read but myself! To be the sole deposi- 
tary of such atreasure! If at least I could, with the 
help of lines and colours, and by the imitation of the 
play of light and shade, fix upon wood a reflection 
of her celestial face! If marble were not rebel- 
lious to my chisel, how I would carve out of the 
purest Parian or Pentelic stone a simulacrum of that 
lovely body that should make even the effigies of the 
goddesses fall from their altars! And long hereafter, 


when under the mud of floods, under the dust of van- 


316 


dbbbbbbbbbbebbbhba bh bad 
KING CANDAULES 


ished cities, men of future ages came upon some por- 
tion of that petrified image of Nyssia, they would say, 
‘Such were the women of that vanished world.’ And 
they would raise a temple in which to place the divine 
fragment. But all I am capable of is stupid admira- 
tion, insensate love. Sole worshipper of an unknown 
divinity, | have no means of spreading her worship on 
the earth.” 

Thus in Candaules the artist’s enthusiasm had killed 
the lover’s jealousy, admiration was stronger than love. 
If instead of Nyssia, the daughter of the Satrap Mega- 
basus, full of Eastern ideas, he had married a Greek 
girl of Athens or Corinth, no doubt he would have 
brought to his court the most skilful painters and 
sculptors and given them his queen as a model, as 
Alexander the Great did with Campaspe his favourite, 
who posed nude before Apelles. Such a fancy would 
not have been objected to by a woman coming from a 
land where the most chaste gloried in having con- 
tributed, one by her back, another by her bosom, to 
the perfection of some famous statue. But scarcely 
did shy Nyssia consent to throw off her veils in 
the discreet shadows of the bed-chamber; and the 


king’s hot eagerness shocked her, if the truth be told, 


aay) 


bttettreteeeeeeettttttttte 
K EN G 7@tA (N DA CHEE 


more than it delighted her. “The knowledge of the 
duty and submission which a woman owes her hus- 
band alone made her yield sometimes to what she 
called his caprices. 

Often he prayed her to let fall upon her shoulders 
the waves of her hair, a golden river richer than Pacto- 
lus; to place upon her brow a wreath of ivy and lime 
like a Bacchante of Menalus; to lie down on a tiger- 
skin with silver teeth and ruby eyes, scarce covered 
with a cloud of tissue thinner than woven wind, or to 
stand within a pearly shell, dropping from her tresses 
a dew of pearls instead of sea water. 

When he had found the most favourable position, 
he lost himself in mute contemplation, his hand tracing 
vague contours in the air, some sketch, some projected 
painting; and he would have remained thus for hours, 
had not Nyssia, soon weary of her part of model, 
recalled to him, in a cold and disdainful voice, that 
such amusements were unworthy of royal majesty, and 
contrary to the sacred laws of marriage. ‘It is thus,” 
she would say, withdrawing, draped to the eyes, within 
the most secret recesses of her apartments, ‘that 
mistresses are treated, and not honest women of noble 


racer’ 


318 


dhe ede cbe oh check hob ech leche cbedbecbeabedk dhe dbeck 
KING CANDAULES 


These wise remonstrances had no effect upon Can- 
daules, whose passion grew in inverse ratio to the 
coldness which the Queen exhibited towards him, and 
he reached the point of being unable to keep to him- 
self the chaste secrets of his nuptial couch. He felt 
compelled to have a confidant like a prince in modern 
tragedy. He did not, as you may readily believe, 
choose a repellent philosopher with sour mien, whose 
long gray or white beard falls upon a cloak full of 
proud holes, nor a warrior who could talk only of 
ballistze, catapults, and cars armed with scythes, nor 
a sententious Eupatrid full of counsel and political 
maxims; but he chose Gyges, whose renown as a lady- 
killer naturally gave him a reputation as a connoisseur 
in matters of women. 

One evening he put his hand on Gyges’ shoulder 
more familiarly and cordially than usual, and looking 
at him significantly, drew away from the group of 
courtiers, saying aloud, “ Gyges, I want your opinion 
of my statue which the sculptors of Sicyon have just 
carved in the genealogical bas-relief on which are 
represented my ancestors.” 

“OQ King, your knowledge is greater than that of 


your humble subject, and I know not how to acknowl- 


Shy, 


ch beable ok oe a oe ob abe abe ab cece obec eof oe che al oe fea ce 


ere ere ote VTE ov 


KIN GaACAIN D AWW eae 


edge the honour you do me by deigning to consult me,” 
replied Gyges, with a sign of assent. 

Candaules and his favourite traversed a number of 
halls decorated in the Greek taste, in which the Cor- 
inthian acanthus and the Ionic volute bloomed and 
curled on the capitals of the columns, and the friezes 
were studded with figures in polychrome representing 
processions and sacrifices; they reached at last a remote 
part of the old palace, the walls of which were formed 
of irregularly shaped stones, laid dry after the cyclopean 
fashion. The proportions of this old architecture were 
as colossal as its character was formidable. The 
mighty genius of the old civilisations of the East was 
plainly imprinted upon it, and it recalled the Egyptian 
and Assyrian debauches of brick and granite. Some- 
thing of the spirit of the old architects of the ‘Tower 
of Lylacq survived in the squat pillars with deep, 
spiral flutings, the capitals of which were formed 
of four heads of bulls connected by knots of serpents 
that seemed to seek to devour them, — an obscure and 
cosmogonic emblem, the meaning of which was no 
longer intelligible, and which had gone down to the 
tomb with the hierophants of past ages. The doors 


were neither square nor round. ‘They formed a sort 


320 


che he abe ahah be te be oe ae oe cheats che cece cde ce ae be teh 


OFS CFS GIO UTS VTE WFO eve wwe ATE OTe 


KING CANDAULES 


of ogee not unlike the mitre of the magi, and added by 
their quaintness to the characteristic appearance of the 
building. 

This part of the palace formed a sort of court sur- 
rounded by a portico, the architrave of which was 
adorned with the genealogical bas-relief to which Can- 
daules had alluded. In the centre was Hercules, the 
upper portion of his body bare, seated on a throne, his 
feet on a foot-stool, according to the rite for the repre- 
sentation of divine beings. His colossal proportions 
removed any possible doubt as to his apotheosis. The 
archaic rudeness and coarseness of the work, due to the 
chisel of some primitive artist, imparted to it an air of 
barbaric majesty and savage grandeur more in harmony 
perhaps with the character of the monster-slaying hero 
than the work of a sculptor deeply versed in his art. 

On the right of the throne sat Alczus, the son of 
the hero and of Omphale, Ninus, Belus, and Argon, 
the first kings of the dynasty of the Heraclids; then the 
whole series of intermediary kings, the last of whom 
were Ardys, Alyattes, Meles or Myrsus, the father 
of Candaules, and finally Candaules himself. 

All these personages, with their hair plaited into 


cords, their curled beards, their oblique eyes, and their 


21 321 


REEDA ALE EES AL ALES ees 
KAN GGA N DAU Tess 


angular attitudes, their awkward, constrained gestures, 
seemed to be endowed with a sort of fictitious life due 
to the rays of the setting sun and to the reddish colours 
which time imparts to marble in hot countries. The 
inscriptions in antique characters, engraved near each 
by way of legend, added yet more to the mysterious 
singularity of that long pracession of figures in strange, 
barbaric accoutrements. 

By a chance which Gyges could not help noticing, 
the statue of Candaules happened to occupy the last 
vacant place on the left of Hercules. The dynastic 
cycle was closed. ‘T’o include the descendants of Can- 
daules it would be necessary to erect a new portico, 
and to begin a new bas-relief. 

Candaules, whose arm still rested on Gyges’ shoul- 
der, walked around the portico in silence. He seemed 
to hesitate about opening the conversation, and to 
have wholly forgotten the pretext under which he 
had brought his captain of the guards to this solitary 
place. 

“What would you do, Gyges,”’ at last said Can- 
daules, breaking a silence that began to weigh on both, 
“if you were a diver, and from the green depths of 


the ocean you had brought up a perfect pearl, incom- 


322 


desbeade oaks oh dec oe ecb cbecb de ecb ecb decde ce oh de 
KING CANDAULES 


parable in brilliancy and purity, and more valuable than 
the richest treasures? ”’ 

‘‘T should enclose it,” replied Gyges, somewhat sur- 
prised at the abrupt question, “¢in a cedar box covered 
with plates of bronze, I should bury it in some 
desert place under a displaced rock, and from time to 
time, when I could be sure of not being seen by any 
one, I would go and contemplate my precious gem and 
admire the colours of heaven mingling with its pearly 
tints.” 

“¢ And I,” replied Candaules, his eye lighted up with 
enthusiasm, ‘if I possessed so rich a gem, I would set 
it within my diadem, show it freely to every eye, place. 
it in the bright light of the sun, adorn myself with its 
brilliancy, smile with pride on hearing people say: 
‘Never did any king of Assyria or Babylon, never did 
any Greek or Trinacrian tyrant, possess a pearl of 
such perfection as Candaules, son of Myrsus, descend- 
ant of Hercules, King of Sardis and Lydia. Compared 
to Candaules, Midas, who changed whatever he touched 
into gold, was but a beggar poor as Irus!’”’ 

Gyges listened in amazement to Candaules’ speech, 
and sought to penetrate the hidden meaning of these 


lyrical divagations. ‘The king appeared to be in a state 


323 


LEELLELLELEALALLL ALLEL ELSA 
KING CANDAULES 


of extraordinary excitement; his eyes sparkled with 
enthusiasm, a feverish flush reddened his cheeks, his 
swollen nostrils drew in the air forcibly. 

“Well, Gyges,” continued Candaules, without ap- 
pearing to notice his favourite’s disturbed look. “I 
am that diver. In the sombre human ocean in which 
jostle confusedly so many misshapen and misbegotten 
beings, so many incomplete or degraded forms, so 
many types of bestial ugliness, wretched failures of 
nature in her attempts, I have found a pure, radiant, 
spotless beauty, without defect, the real ideal, the ful- 
filled dream, a form which never a painter or a sculptor 
-could have reproduced on canvas or in marble. I have 
found Nyssia! ” 

“Although the Queen is endowed with the timid 
modesty of the women of the East, and no man save 
her husband ever beheld the features of her face, Fame 
with the hundred tongues and the hundred ears has 


b] 


published her praises everywhere,” said Gyges, bowing 
respectfully. 

‘‘Mere vague, insignificant rumours. They say of 
her, as of all women who are not exactly ugly, that she 
is more beautiful than Aphrodite or Helen; but no one 


can imagine, even faintly, such perfection as hers. In 


324. 


eer ee ee ee 


KING /GANDA UL ES 


vain have I besought Nyssia to appear without her veil 
at some public festival or some sacrifice, or to show 
herself for a moment leaning on the royal terrace, to 
give to her people the mighty benefit of one of her 
aspects, to bestow upon them one of her profiles, more 
generous in this than the goddesses who exhibit to their 
worshippers only pale simulacra in alabaster or ivory. 
Never has she consented to do so. It is strange, and 
I blush to confess it, dear Gyges,— once I was jealous; 
I sought to conceal my loves from all eyes; no darkness 
was deep enough, no mystery impenetrable enough; 
but now I do not know myself, 1 do not feel like a 
lover or a husband. My love has melted into adora- 
tion like thin wax in a burning brazier. All my feel- 
ings of jealousy and possession have vanished. No, 
the most perfect work which heaven has bestowed on 
earth since the day when Prometheus applied fire to the 
left breast of the clay statue, cannot be thus concealed 
within the icy shadows of the harem. If I were to 
die, the secret of this beauty would remain forever 
buried under the sombre draperies of widowhood. I 
consider myself guilty when I conceal her, as if I had 
the sun within my palace and prevented its lighting the 
world. When I think of the harmonious lines, the 


$25 


ches be che che he oe oe oh abe be cdocde cheb ck doch che eok oh chek 
KING CANDAULES 


divine contours which I scarce dare touch with a timid 
kiss, I feel my heart near breaking; I long that a 
friendly eye should share my happiness, and, like the 
severe critic to whom a picture is exhibited, to have 
him acknowledge after attentive examination that it is 
irreproachable and that the possessor’s enthusiasm is 
fully justified. Yes, many atime I have felt tempted 
to put away with a rash hand those detested veils; but 
Nyssia’s fierce chastity would never forgive me. And 
yet I am unable to bear alone such great happiness; -I 
must have a confidant of my ecstasy, an echo which 
shall answer my cries of admiration, — and that echo 
shall be you.” 

With these words Candaules abruptly disappeared 
into a secret passage. Gyges, left alone, could not 
help noting the course of events which seemed ever to 
put him on Nyssia’s road. Chance had caused him to 
behold her beauty hidden from all eyes; of all princes 
and satraps, she had married Candaules, the very King 
whom he served; and by a strange caprice which he 
could not help considering almost fatal, that King had 
just made him, Gyges, confidences about the mysteri- 
ous creature whom no one approached, and insisted 


upon completing the work of Boreas in the plains of 


326 


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KING CAN DAULES 


Bactria. Was not the finger of the gods visible in all 
these facts? Did not the spectre of beauty, whose 
veil was being dropped little by little, as if to inflame 
him, lead him unsuspectingly towards the fulfilment 
of some great destiny? ‘These were the questions 
which Gyges asked himself ; but unable to fathom the 
obscure future, he resolved to await events, and left 
the Court of Portraits, where the shadows were deep- 
ening in the corners and rendering more and more 
strange and threatening the effigies of Candaules’ 
ancestors. 

Was it a mere play of light, or an illusion produced 
by that vague uneasiness caused in the firmest hearts 
by the arrival of night in antique monuments? Gyges, 
as he was about to step over the threshold, thought 
that low moans issued from the stone lips on the bas- 
relief, and it seemed to him that Hercules was making 


mighty efforts to free his granite club. 


Ill 


THE next day Candaules took Gyges apart to continue 
the conversation begun under the Portico of the Por- 
traits. Freed from the difficulty of beginning the 


conversation, he opened himself unreservedly to his 


Soy 


Stt¢¢eeeetettetbbtttbtts 
INGYGANDAULES 


confidant, and if Nyssia could have heard him, she 
might possibly have forgiven his conjugal indiscretions 
in consideration of the passionate praise which he 
bestowed upon her charms. 

Gyges listened to these praises with the somewhat 
constrained look of a man who is not yet certain 
whether his interlocutor is not assuming greater enthu- 
siasm than he really feels, in order to induce trustfulness 
slow to bestow itself. So Candaules said to him, with 
an accent of annoyance : — 

““T see, Gyges, that you do not believe me. You 
think I boast, or that I have allowed myself to be 
fascinated like a coarse clown by some robust peasant 
girl on whose cheeks Hygeia has spread the crude 
colours of health. No, by all the gods! I have col- 
lected within my harem, like a living nosegay, the love- 
liest flowers of Asia and of Greece; since Dedalus, 
whose statues spoke and walked, I know everything 
which has been produced by sculptors and painters ; 
Linus, Orpheus, Homer, have taught me harmony and 
rhythm. I do not look with the bandage of love over 
my eyes; I am judging coolly. The fire of youth has 
naught to do with my admiration, and were I as broken 


down, decrepit, and wrinkled as Tithonus, my action 


328 


tketbeeeteeteetetettttttttest 
KT: NiGy (GAGN DA US LE’S 


would still be the same. But I forgive your incredulity 
and lack of enthusiasm. ‘To understand me you must 
behold Nyssia in the radiant brilliancy of her sparkling 
whiteness, without any importunate shadow, without 
any jealous drapery, such as nature herself modelled 
her in a moment of inspiration that shall never again 
return. ‘To-night I shall conceal you in one corner 
of our apartment. You shall see her.” 

“Sire! what are you asking of me?” answered the 
young warrior, with respectful firmness. ‘‘ How, from 
the depths of the dust that I am, from the abyss of 
my nothingness, could I dare to gaze upon that sun 
of perfection, risking to be blinded for the rest of 
my life, or to see in darkness only a dazzling figure? 
Have pity upon your humble servant; do not compel 
me to an action so contrary to the maxims of virtue. 
Every man must look only upon what belongs to him. 
You know the immortal goddesses always punish im- 
prudent or audacious men who surprise them in their 
divine nudity. I believe you; Nyssia is the loveliest 
of women; you are the happiest of husbands and of 
lovers; Hercules, your ancestor, in his numerous con- 
quests, never found any one who approached your 


Queen. If you, the prince whom the most famous 


we. 


tetebthbbtbbtdbbbdbbbbbdbe 
KING CAN DAULEES 


artists take for judge and adviser,— if you think her 
incomparable, what matters the opinion of an obscure 
soldier like me? So give up your fancy, which I ven- 
ture to say is unworthy of your royal majesty, and 
which you will regret as soon as you have satisfied it.” 

“Listen, Gyges,” answered Candaules. ‘I see that 
you mistrust me. You think I seek to try you, but I 
swear by the ashes of the pile from which my ancestor 
rose a god, that I speak frankly and without any 
hidden thought.” | 

“OQ Candaules, I do not mistrust your good faith ; 
your passion is sincere; but perchance if I were to 
obey you, you would conceive for me deep aversion, 
you would hate me for not having resisted more, 
you would seek to take from my eyes, forced to be 
indiscreet, the image which you would have allowed 
them to catch a glimpse of in a moment of delirium. 
And who knows whether you would not condemn them 
to the eternal night of the tomb, to punish them for hav- 
ing opened when they ought to have been closed ? ” 

“Fear nothing, I give you my royal word that noth- 
ing shall happen to you.” 

“Pardon your slave if I venture, after such assur- 


ance, to make another objection. Have you reflected 


339 


doable eos bees hee cede ceabecbecb be tec oe dees 
K 

that what you propose to me is a profanation of the 
sacredness of marriage, a sort of visual adultery? 
Often woman puts aside modesty with her garment, 
and when she has been violated by a glance, without 
having ceased to be virtuous, she may well believe that 
she has lost something of her bloom of purity. You 
promise to feel no resentment towards me, but who 
shall secure me against the wrath of Nyssia,—so 
reserved, so chaste, of such delicate, savage virtue that 
she might be supposed yet a girl, ignorant of the laws 
of Hymen? Suppose she learns of the sacrilege of 
which [ shall have been guilty through obedience to 
the will of the King himself. “To what torture will she 
not doom me in expiation of such a crime? Who 
shall protect me against her avenging wrath? ” 

“I did not know that you were so wise and pru- 
dent,” said Candaules, with a slightly ironical smile; 
“but all these dangers are imaginary. I shall conceal 
you in such fashion that Nyssia shall never be aware 
that she has been seen by any one else than her royal 
spouse.” 

Gyges, unable to object further, made a sign of 
assent to show that he yielded to the King’s will. 


He had resisted as long as he could; his conscience 


33} 


che he ob oho abe abe be he abe abe cb ech che che abe hoch obo chads oh hocks 


CTO Ve Ve CTS Cee UO 


KING CAN DA UDES 


was henceforth at peace as regarded what might 
happen. He feared, besides, by further resistance to 
Candaules’ wish to interfere with the fate which 
seemed determined to bring him near Nyssia for some 
formidable and all-important reason which he was not 
allowed to understand. 

Without foreseeing what might be the end of it all, 
he vaguely saw pass before him innumerable, tumultu- 
ous, indistinct images. His hidden love, crouching at 
the foot of the staircase of his soul, had ascended a few 
steps, guided by the uncertain light of hope; the 
weight of impossibility no longer bore so heavily 
upon his breast now that he believed himself helped 
by the gods. For, indeed, who could have thought 
that the boasted charms of the daughter of Megabasus 
were to be no longer mysterious so far as Gyges was 
concerned ? 


> 


“« Come, Gyges,” said Candaules, taking him by the 
hand; “let us turn this moment to account. Nyssia 
is now walking with her women in the gardens. Let 
us go and study the place and arrange our stratagem 
for to-night.” 

The King took his confidant by the hand, and guided 


him through the windings which led to the nuptial 


332 


keeeeteteetetttettttetetes 
KING /GANDAULES 


apartment. ‘The doors of the bedroom were formed 
of boards of cedar so closely joined that it was impos- 
sible to notice the divisions. By dint of rubbing them 
with wool steeped in oil, slaves had made the wood 
shine like marble. The bronze nails with faceted 
heads which studded them, shone like purest gold. A 
complicated system of straps and metal rings, of which 
Candaules and his queen knew the secret, formed the 
lock, for in those heroic days locksmithing was still in 
its infancy. 

Candaules untied the knots, slid the rings on the 
straps, and raised with a handle, which he inserted into 
the mortice, the bar that closed the door; then, ordering 
Gyges to stand against the wall, he pushed back against 
him one leaf of the door so as to conceal him entirely. 
But the door did not fit so perfectly the frame of oak 
carefully polished and levelled by skilful workmen, but 
that the young warrior could, through the space left 
free for the play of the hinges, plainly perceive the 
whole interior of the room. 

Opposite the door the royal bed stood upon a plat- 
form reached by several steps and covered with a purple 
carpet. Pillars of carved silver supported the entabla- 


ture adorned with foliage in relief, amid which loves 


333 


bbebbb bbb bbb bbb bbb bebe 
KING CANDAULES 


played with dolphins. Thick curtains embroidered 
with gold surrounded it like the folds of a tent. 

On the altar of the household gods were placed 
vases of precious metal, pater enamelled with flowers, 
two-handled cups, and all that was necessary for liba- 
tions. Along the walls, lined with boards of cedar 
marvellously carved, were placed at intervals statues 
of black basalt in the constrained attitudes of Egyptian 
art, holding in their fists bronze torches in which were 
fixed pieces of resinous wood. 

An onyx lamp, suspended by a silver chain, hung 
from that particular beam in the ceiling called “the 
black,”’ because it was more exposed than the others to 
be soiled by smoke. Every night a slave had to fill 
this lamp with scented oil. 

Near the head of the bed hung from a small column 
a trophy of weapons, consisting of a helmet with a 
vizor, a buckler lined with four thicknesses of bull- 
hide and covered with plates of tin and copper, a two- 
edged sword, and ash javelins with brazen heads. 

From wooden pegs hung Candaules’ tunics and 
mantles. They were simple and double, —that is, 
large enough to wrap twice around the body. Espe- 


cially noticeable was a cloak thrice dyed in purple and 


Ba% 


KING CANDAULES 


adorned with embroidery representing a hunt in which 
Laconian molossi pursued stags and tore them to pieces, 
and a tunic the stuff of which, as fine and delicate as 
the pellicle of an onion, was as brilliant as if it were 
woven of sunbeams. Opposite the trophy of arms was 
placed an arm-chair encrusted with ivory and silver, the 
seat covered with a leopard-skin spotted with more eyes 
than the body of Argus, and an open-worked foot-stool, 
on which Nyssia laid her garments. 

‘J usually retire first,’ said Candaules to Gyges, 
‘©and leave the door open as it is now. Nyssia, who 
has always some flower to finish on her tapestry, some- 
times delays joining me, but at last she comes, and as 
if the effort cost a great deal, slowly and one by one 
lets fall upon the ivory arm-chair the draperies and the 
tunics which envelop her all day like the wrappings of 
amummy. From the depths of your retreat you can 
follow her graceful movements, admire her unrivalled 
charms, and judge for yourself if Candaules is a 
young madman who boasts wrongly, or whether he 
does not really possess the richest pearl of beauty that 
ever adorned a diadem.”’ 

“O King, I should believe you even without this 
test,” replied Gyges, leaving his hiding-place. 


Ohh 


tetebetteeetedtbbtdeteted 
KING CANDAULES 


“Once she has thrown off her garments,” repliea 
Candaules, without paying attention to his confidant’s 
words, ‘she comes and takes her place by my side. 
That is the moment you must seize upon to make 
your escape, for in walking from the arm-chair to the 
bed, she turns her back to the door. Step as if you 
were walking on the top of ripe grain; take care that 
not a grain of sand creaks under your sandals, hold in 
your breath, and withdraw as softly as possible. ‘The 
vestibule is plunged in shadow, and the faint rays of the 
only lamp that remains lighted do not reach beyond 
the threshold of the room. It is certain, therefore, that 
Nyssia will be unable to see you, and to-morrow there 
will be some one in this world to understand my ecsta- 
sies and who will not be amazed at my mad admira- 
tion. — But the day is drawing toa close; the sun will 
soon lead his coursers to drink in the Hesperian wave 
at the extremity of the world beyond the pillars erected 
by my ancestor. Get back into your hiding-place, 
Gyges. Although the hours of waiting are long, I 
swear by Eros and his golden arrows that you will 
never regret them.” 

With this assurance Candaules left Gyges again 


concealed behind the door. The forced inactivity 


336 


HELLA LLL ELLA ALALLAL ALS 
KT Gt GaN’ Di ALU TES 


of the King’s young confidant gave free course to his 
thoughts. Certainly the situation was most strange. 
He loved Nyssia as one loves a star, without hope 
of his love being requited. Convinced of the useless- 
ness of any attempt, he had made no effort to draw 
near her, and yet, by a concourse of extraordinary cir- 
cumstances, he was about to be made acquainted with 
treasures reserved for lovers and husbands alone. Not 
a word, not a glance, had been exchanged between 
Nyssia and himself, for she was probably ignorant 
of the existence of him to whom her beauty would 
soon be no longer a mystery. ‘Io be unknown to her 
whose modesty would have nothing to sacrifice to him, 
was a strange position indeed. To love a woman 
secretly and to see himself led by the husband across 
the threshold of the nuptial chamber, to be guided 
towards the treasure by the very dragon that should 
have defended its approach, was not this enough to fill 
him with amazement and to make him admire the 
singular workings of chance? 

At this point of his reflections he heard steps 
sounding on the pavement. It was the slaves com- 
ing to renew the oil of the lamp, to cast perfume 


upon the coals of the kamklins, and to shake the 


22 be He 


KING Soe rhe 


fleeces, dyed purple and saffron, that formed the 
royal couch. 

The hour was approaching, and Gyges felt the blood 
surging in his heart and veins. He even felt tempted 
to withdraw before the Queen’s arrival, to tell Candaules 
afterwards that he had remained, and to indulge in the 
most excessive praise of Nyssia. It was repugnant to 
him, — for Gyges, in spite of his somewhat easy life, 
did not lack delicacy of sentiment, — it was repugnant 
to him to steal a favour for which he would willingly 
have given his life had it been granted freely. The 
husband’s complicity made the deed more odious in 
some sort, and he would have preferred to owe to any 
other circumstance, the happiness of seeing the Marvel 
of Asia in her night-dress. Perhaps also—I must 
confess it as a truthful historian—the approach of 
danger had something to do with his virtuous scruples. 
Undoubtedly Gyges did not lack courage. Standing 
on his war chariot, his quiver rattling on his shoul- 
der, his bow in his hand, he would have defied the 
proudest warriors ; out hunting he would have attacked 
without trembling the boar of Calydon or the Nemzan 
lion; but — let who will explain the riddle — he shud- 


dered at the thought of gazing upon a beautiful woman 


338 


che he beable oho obs ae abe abe abe cdot cho cba abe bree ca abece abe coal 


Reb ING GRAN DAUD, kes 


through the chink of a door. No one possesses every 
sort of courage. ‘Then he also felt that he would not 
see Nyssia with impunity. ‘This was about to be the 
decisive moment in his life. He had lost the repose 
of his heart because he had seen Nyssia for one mo- 
ment. What would it be after what was about to 
happen? Would life be possible for him when to that 
divine face, which already inflamed his dreams, should 
be added a lovely body made for the kisses of the 
immortals? What would become of him if hence- 
forth he could not contain his passion in shadow and 
silence as he had done hitherto? Would he give 
to the court of Lydia the ridiculous spectacle of an 
insensate love, or would he try to draw upon him, by 
his extravagance, the disdainful pity of the Queen? 
This was not unlikely, since the reason of Candaules, 
the legitimate possessor of Nyssia, had been unable to 
resist the vertigo caused by that superhuman beauty, — 
Candaules, the young and careless King, who up to 
that day had laughed at love and preferred pictures 
and statues to everything else. 

His reasoning was very sound, but very useless, 
however. At that very moment Candaules entered 


the room and whispered in a low but very distinct 


7 


btebbbrbbbetrteretttdtdttttés 
KING SPOAN DAU Es 


voice, as he passed near the door, ‘ Patience, my poor 
Gyges; Nyssia will soon come.” 

_ When he saw that he could not draw back, Gyges, 
who after all was a young man, forgot all in the happi- 
ness of feeding his eyes upon the exquisite spectacle 
which Candaules was about to give him. A young 
fellow of twenty-five cannot be expected to possess the 
austerity of a philosopher grown gray with age. 

At last the soft rustle of stuffs trailing over the 
marble, easily discerned in the deep silence of night, 
announced the queen’s coming. It was she. Witha 
step as cadenced and rhythmical as an ode, she crossed 
the threshold of the bed-chamber, and the wind made 
by the floating folds of her veil almost touched the 
burning face of Gyges, who nearly fainted, and was 
obliged to lean against the wall, so great was his emo- 
tion. He recovered, and approaching the crack of the 
door, he assumed the most favourable position in order 
to lose nothing of the scene of which he was to be the 
invisible witness. 

Nyssia walked towards the ivory footstool and began 
to take out the pins ending in hollowed balls, which 
fastened her veil to her head; and Gyges, from the 


shadowy corner whee he was concealed, was able to 


340 


Se OFS OFS OFS OFS OHO 


LIN Ge Cran DA ae iS 


examine freely the proud and lovely face, of which he 
had had but a glimpse; the round, delicate, yet strong 
neck on which Aphrodite had traced with the nail of 
her little finger the three soft rays which are even now 
called Venus’s necklace; the back of the neck on 
which little playful, rebellious curls twisted and turned ; 
the silvery shoulders which half emerged from the 
chlamyd like the disc of the moon showing from 
behind a dark cloud. Candaules, leaning on_ his 
elbow, watched his wife with an air of affected care- 
lessness and said to himself, “ Now Gyges, who seems 
so cold, so difficult to please, and so disdainful, must be 
half convinced.” 

Opening a coffer placed on the table supported by 
lion’s claws, the queen freed her beautiful arms, — 
which rivalled in whiteness those of Hera, sister and 
wife of Zeus, king of Olympus, — of the weight of the 
bracelets and chains of gems with which they were 
overladen. However precious these gems might be, 
they certainly did not equal the beauty of what they 
covered, and had Nyssia been a coquette, it might have 
been supposed that she put them on in order to be 
begged to take them off. The bracelets and the chas- 


ings had left upon her fine skin, tender as the inner 


341 


kobeebetteeettttetetdcttettese 
KIN G «GAN, DA Wie Ss ae 


surface of the lily, light, rosy prints, which she soon 
caused to disappear by rubbing them with the slender, 
rounded, delicate fingers of her small hand. 

Then, with a gesture like a dove that fluffs out its 
snowy feathers, she shook out her hair, which, no longer 
held by the pins, rolled in soft curls down her back 
and her bosom like the flowers of the hyacinth. 
She stood still for a few moments before drawing 
together the scattered tresses, which she then bound 
in one mass. It was marvellous to behold the fair 
curls streaming like golden jets between her silvery 
fingers, and her arms undulating like swans’ necks 
above her head to roll and fix the tress. If perchance 
you have ever glanced at one of those lovely Etruscan 
vases with black backgrounds adorned with one of those 
subjects designated “‘ Greek toilette,’ you may have an 
idea of Nyssia’s grace in that attitude which from the 
days of antiquity to our own times has furnished paint- 
ers and sculptors with so many charming motives. 

Having dressed her hair, she sat down upon the 
ivory stool and began to untie the bands that held her 
cothurns. We moderns, thanks to our horrible system 
of shoes, almost as absurd as the Chinese, have lost 


the conception of what a foot really should be. Nys- 


342 


chet che obe os cb cde che sh hbo cheb ce ch heheh 
KING CANDAULES 


sia’s was wondrously perfect, even in Greece and 
ancient Asia. ‘The great toe, slightly separate like 
a bird’s, the other toes somewhat long and arranged 
with charming symmetry, the shapely nails shining 
like agates, the clean, well-turned ankles, the rosy 
heel, — nothing was wanting to it. The leg which 
rose above the foot, and seemed in the light of the 
lamp to shine like polished marble, was irreproachable 
in form and outline. 

Gyges, absorbed in his contemplation, said to him- 
self, although he understood Candaules’ madness, that 
if the gods had granted him such a treasure, he would 
have known well how to keep it for himself alone. 

“Well, Nyssia, are you not coming to sleep by my 
side?” said Candaules, seeing that the Queen was not 
making haste, and desiring to abridge Gyges’ period 
of waiting. 


bb) 


“Yes, my lord, I shall be done presently,” replied 
Nyssia, and she unhooked the clasp which fastened her 
peplum upon her shoulder. She had now nothing but 
her tunic to throw off. 

Gyges, behind the door, felt the blood throbbing in 
his temples. His heart beat so loud that he was sure 


that it must be heard in the room, and to still its pul- 


343 


teretebettetttbtttdttet 
TON. G" AGRAVN «ADA Ch EE ss 


sations he pressed his hand to his breast. When 
Nyssia, with a motion of graceful negligence, undid 
the girdle of her tunic, he felt his knees sink beneath 
him. 

Was it through some instinctive presentiment, or 
was Nyssia’s skin, untouched by profane glances, en- 
dowed with such lively magnetic susceptibility that it 
could feel the glance of an impassioned though invisible 
eye? However it may be, she yet hesitated to take 
off her tunic, the last rampart of her modesty. Twice 
or thrice her bare shoulders, her breast, and her arms 
shivered nervously as if they were touched by the wing 
of a night moth, or as if some insolent lip had dared to 
approach them in the shadow. 

At last, apparently making up her mind, she threw 
off the tunic, and the white poem of her divine body 
appeared suddenly in its splendour like the statue of a 
goddess stripped of its veils on the day of the inaugu- 
ration of atemple. The light shimmered with pleas- 
ure over her exquisite form and enveloped it in a timid 
kiss, profiting by an occasion, alas! very rare. The 
rays scattered through the room, disdaining to illumine 
the golden urns and jewelled clasps and the brazen 


tripods, concentrated upon Nyssia, leaving everything 


344 


she oh abe oe ols ob as ole oe ale obo cboad obra abe cbc cb clade fe rele 


Te WS oe Te 


KLN GY GAN DAULES 


else in darkness. If I were a Greek of the time of 
Pericles, I might praise at length her lovely, undulating 
lines, her elegant contours, her polished hips, her 
breasts which might have served as models for Hebe’s 
cup; but modern prudery forbids such descriptions, 
for the pen is not permitted what is allowed to the 
chisel ; and besides, there are things which can be 
written in marble only. 

King Candaules smiled with an air of proud satisfac- 
tion. With swift step, as if ashamed of being so 
beautiful, being but the daughter of a man and a 
woman, Nyssia drew towards the bed, her arms crossed 
on her breast; but by a sudden motion she turned 
around before she took her place on the couch by 
the side of her royal husband, and she saw through the 
crack of the door a burning glance blazing like the 
carbuncles of Oriental legends ; for if it were not true 
that she had double pupils and possessed the stone 
found in the heads of dragons, it was true that her 
green glance saw in darkness like the glance of the cat 
and the tiger. 

A cry like that of a doe shot by an arrow at the 
moment when she dreams peacefully under the foliage 


nearly escaped her, yet she managed to contain herself, 


345 


whe che os obs oD ob ols obec ob by nce ef ebe abe ela obe obs loc ole eto oe 


KING CANDAULES 


and lay down by Candaules, cold as a serpent, with the 
pallor of death on her cheeks. Not a muscle moved, 
not a fibre stirred, and soon her slow regular breathing 
justified the belief that Morpheus had poured the juice 
of his poppies upon her eyelids. 

She had divined everything. 


IV 


GyceEs, trembling and nearly out of his mind, had 
withdrawn, obeying carefully the directions given him 
by Candaules, and if Nyssia by a fatal chance had not 
turned her head as she set foot on the bed and seen 
him flee, no doubt she would have remained forever 
ignorant of the outrage done to her charms by a hus- 
band more passionate than scrupulous. 

The young soldier, who was well used to the wind- 
ings of the palace, had no difficulty in finding his way 
out. He traversed the city with disordered steps, like 
a madman escaped from Anticyrus, and having made 
himself known to the sentry on watch near the ram- 
parts had the gates opened and went out into the 
country. His head was burning; his cheeks flamed 
as if with fever; through his dry lips his breath came 


short and quick. He lay down in search of coolness 


346 


chef abe abe oe abe abe ob abe abe abe cbe cde abe cb babe ob cabo abe obee 


ae CFS ame we wre 


CEN GUGAN DAULES 


upon the grass wet with the dew of night, and having 
heard in the darkness through the thick grass and the 
watercress the silver breathing of a naiad, he dragged 
himself towards the spring, plunged his hands and arms 
in the crystal basin, bathed his face in it, and drank 
some water to calm the ardour by which he was de- 
voured. Any one who had seen him thus in the faint 
light, bending desperately over the spring, would have 
mistaken him for Narcissus pursuing his own image ; 
but certainly it was not with himself that Gyges was 
in love. 

The brief apparition of Nyssia had dazzled his eyes 
like the glare of lightning. He saw her floating before 
him in a luminous whirl, and he knew that never again 
would he be able to drive that image from his memory. 
His love had grown suddenly; it had bloomed like 
plants which burst into bloom with a thunderclap. 
Henceforth it was impossible for him to master his 
passion. It would have been as easy to advise the 
purple waves which Poseidon raises with his trident to 
remain at peace on their sandy beds and not to break 
in foam against the rocks of the shore. Gyges was 
no longer master of himself, and he felt the gloomy 


despair of a man who, riding on a car, sees his mad- 


347 


LEAKE ALEALEALAALL ALL AAL ELS 
KING ¢GA Ni DAU ies 


dened horses, careless of the bit, flying in a wild 
gallop towards a rocky precipice. Innumerable proj- 
ects, each more extravagant than the others, passed 
confusedly through his brain. He accused fate, he 
cursed his mother for having given him birth, and the 
gods for not having put him on a throne, for then he 
might have married the satrap’s daughter. 

A hideous grief gnawed at his heart. He was 
jealous of the King. From the moment when the 
tunic, like a flight of white doves settling on the sward, 
had fallen at Nyssia’s feet, it had seemed to him that 
she belonged to him, and he considered that Candaules 
had robbed him of what was his own. In his amorous 
reveries, he had not thought of the husband; he had 
thought of the Queen as of a mere abstraction, without 
thinking clearly of all the intimate details of conjugal 
familiarity, so bitter and so keen to those in love with 
a woman who belongs to another. Now he had seen 
Nyssia’s fair head bending like a flower by Candaules’ 
brown head, and the remembrance wrought his anger 
up to the highest pitch,—though a moment’s reflec- 
tion should have convinced him that matters could not 
have been otherwise, —and he felt springing up in his 


soul a most unjust hatred of his master. The act of 


348 


decbobcbeck ch bb haba ch ch check cheetah ol 


ere ete O1O OFS rhe cbe che by obs obs obs 


KLIN Ga GRAN: DD) ASOT ES 


compelling him to be present while the Queen undressed 
struck him as blood-thirsty irony, as an odious refine- 
ment of cruelty, for he forgot that his love for the 
Queen could not possibly be known to the King, 
who had sought in him merely a confidant of easy 
morals who was a connoisseur of beauty. What he 
should have looked upon as a wondrous favour, ap- 
peared to him a mortal insult which he thirsted to 
avenge. As he reflected that on the morrow the scene 
of which he had just been the invisible and mute wit- 
ness would unquestionably be renewed, his tongue 
clove to his mouth, his brow was beaded with cold 
sweat, and his hands sought convulsively the handle 
of his broad, double-edged sword. 

However, thanks to the coolness of night, that wise 
counsellor, he became somewhat calmer and returned 
to Sardis before day had dawned sufficiently to allow 
the few matutinal inhabitants and the early rising 
slaves to mark the pallor of his brow and the disorder 
of his garments. He went to the post which he 
usually occupied at the palace, expecting that Can- 
daules would send for him ere long; for whatever the 
feelings that agitated him, he was not powerful enough 


to brave the King’s anger and avoid the part of confi- 


349 


be oe oe oh oe cece odes oes eee ae ole 
KING ‘CAN DAU LES 


ee 


£t+ 


3 


dant, which now inspired him with disgust only. Ar- 
rived at the palace he sat down on the steps of a 
vestibule wainscotted with cypress, leaned against a 
pillar, and, under pretext of being tired, threw his 
mantle over his head and pretended to sleep in order 
to avoid the questions of the guards. 

If the night had been dreadful for Gyges, it had 
been no less so to Nyssia, for she did not doubt for a 
moment that Gyges had been concealed there by 
Candaules himself. ‘The persistent manner in which 
the king had begged her not to veil so closely a face 
made by the gods to be admired of men; the annoy- 
ance he had felt at her refusal to appear dressed in 
Greek fashion at sacrifices and public solemnities; the 
sarcasms which he had not spared her concerning what 
he called her barbaric shyness, — everything proved to 
her that the young Heraclid, contemptuous of modesty, 
like an Athenian or a Corinthian sculptor, had willed to 
admit some one to mysteries which all ought to ignore; 
for no one would have been bold enough, unless com- 
manded by him, to adventure upon such an enterprise, 
in which discovery meant instant death. 

Slowly passed the sombre hours! With intense 


anxiety she waited until morning mingled its bluish 


350 


t¢eeteetetttetetttt ett eee 
KING CANDAULES 


tints with the yellow gleams of the dying lamp. It 
seemed to her that Apollo was never again going to 
ascend his car, and that an invisible hand held back the 
sand in the hourglass. “The night, which was as short 
as any other, seemed to her six months long, like 
Cimmerian nights. | 

As long as it lasted, she kept motionless and straight 7 
on the edge of her couch lest she should be touched 
by Candaules. If until now she had not felt any very 
great love for the son of Myrsus, she at least had for 
him that serious and serene tenderness which every 
honest woman bears to her husband, although the 
Greek liberty of his manners frequently displeased her, 
and he entertained about womanly modesty ideas en- 
tirely contrary to her own; but after such an affront, 
she felt for him cold hatred and icy contempt only. 
She would have preferred death to one of his kisses. 
Such an outrage,— for it is among barbarians, and 
especially among the Persians and Bactrians, the greatest 
dishonour to be seen nude, not only for a woman, but 
also for a man, — such an outrage was unpardonable. 

At last Candaules arose, and Nyssia waked from her 
simulated sleep and hastened from the room, now pro- 


faned in her eyes as if it had been used for the noc- 


B39 


hELLLALDLLALLALAAA LL ALL LAS 
KING CANDAULES 


turnal orgies of Bacchantes and courtesans. She 
longed to breathe purer air, and in order to give her- 
self up freely to her grief, she hastened to take refuge 
in the upper apartments reserved for women, called 
her slaves by clapping her hands, and made them pour 
upon her arms, her shoulders, her breast, and her whole 
body ewers full of water, as if by means of this species 
of lustral ablution she hoped to efface the stain due to 
the glances of Gyges. She wished she could have torn 
away the skin on which the rays of his burning eyes 
seemed to her to have left traces. Taking from the 
hands of the servants the soft cloths used to dry the 
last drops of water, she rubbed herself with so much 
vigour that a faint, rosy flush showed on the places 
she had rubbed. 

“Tn vain,” she said to herself as she let fall the 
damp tissues and dismissed her maids, ‘ in vain shall 
I pour over my body the waters of springs and rivers. 
The salt immensity of the ocean itself could not purify 
me. Such a stain can be washed out with blood only. 
Oh, that glance! that glance! It clings to me, en- 
folds, envelops, and burns me like the poisoned robe 
of Nessus; I feel it under my vestments like a flaming 


tissue which nothing can detach from my body. In 


352 


$bbbbbhhhbteett he tLt tee desk 
KING CANDAULES 


vain now I may heap robe on robe, choose the most 
opaque stuffs, the thickest mantles, I shall none the 
less bear upon my nude flesh that infamous robe 
formed of an adulterous and shameless glance. In 
vain have I been brought up from my birth in retreat, 
enwrapped like Isis, the Egyptian goddess, in a veil 
which no one could have lifted without paying with 
his life for such audacity; in vain have [ lived apart 
from any profane eyes, unknown to men, virgin like 
the snow on which the eagle itself has not pressed its 
talons, so high does the mountain which it covers 
raise its head in the cold, icy air. The depraved 
caprice of a Lydian Greek has sufficed to make me 
lose in a moment, without my being guilty, the fruits 
of long years of precaution and reserve. Innocent and 
dishonoured! Concealed from all and yet publicly 
exposed! That is the fate to which Candaules has 
condemned me. How do I know that Gyges at this 
very moment is not occupied in describing my charms 
to the soldiers on the threshold of the palace? Oh, 
shame! oh, infamy! Iwo men have seen me and 
yet enjoy at the same time the sweet light of the sun! 
Wherein does Nyssia now differ from the most shame- 


less hetaira, from the vilest of courtesans? My body, 


ca 353 


LebehbLbLLLELALLLLLALA?LS 
KING; GAN DAUIDES 


which I had sought to make worthy of being the dwell- 
ing of a pure and noble soul, is now the subject of 
common talk; it is discussed like some lascivious idol 
brought from Sicyon or Corinth. It is approved or 
criticised: ‘That shoulder is perfect; the arm is 
lovely, a shade too thin, perhaps ’— how can I tell? 
All the blood rises from my heart to my face at the 
thought. Oh, beauty, fatal gift of the gods! Why 
am I not the wife of some poor mountain goatherd 
of simple, artless manners? He would not have 
placed on the threshold of his hut another goatherd 
to profane his humble happiness! My wasted form, 
my unkempt hair, my sunburned complexion, would 
have protected me from such coarse insult, and my 
honest plainness would have had no cause to blush. 
How dare J, after what has happened last night, pass 
by these men, upright and proud under the folds of the 
tunic which conceals nothing from the one or the 
other? I should fall dead with shame upon the floor. 
Candaules! Candaules! I had a right to more respect 
from you, and nothing I have done justifies such an 
outrage. Am I one of those wives whose arms wind 
like ivy around the husband’s neck, and who more 


resemble slaves purchased for money for the pleasure 


354 


tttet2ebre¢te¢¢ee¢ttt¢teeetese 
WINGY GOAN DA UOLES 


of their master than ingenuous women of noble race? 
Have I ever sung amorous hymns after the meal, ac- 
companying myself on the lyre, my lips wet with wine, 
my shoulders bare, my head crowned with roses? 
Have I ever given you cause, by any immodest action, 
to treat me as a mistress who is exhibited at the end 
of a feast to one’s companions in debauchery? ” 

While Nyssia thus grovelled in her grief, great tears 
flowed from her eyes, like rain-drops from the azure 
calyx of a lotus after the storm, and after rolling down 
her pale cheeks, they fell upon her beautiful hands, 
languidly opened like roses with half their petals gone, 
for no order from the brain desired them to act. 
Niobe, seeing her fourteen children fallen under the 
arrows of Apollo and Diana, was not more despairing 
and sad. But soon, recovering from this state of de- 
pression, Nyssia rolled on the floor, tore her garments, 
cast ashes upon her beautiful lustrous hair, rended her 
breasts with her nails, uttered convulsive sobs, and 
gave herself up to all the excess of Oriental grief, with 
the greater violence that she had been compelled to 
contain so long indignation, shame, the feeling of 
wounded dignity, and all the emotions that agitated 


her soul; for her pride in life had been broken, and 


355 


heh he fe de oh oe che he abe che docde tobe che obecde obo cde dh dhe cdek 
KIN GSsOCAN DA ULES 


the idea that she was irreproachable in no wise con- 
soled her. As the poet says, “The innocent alone 
knows remorse.” She repented of the crime committed 
by another. 

Nevertheless, she made an effort to master herself ; 
she ordered to be brought the baskets filled with wools 
of different colours, the spindles covered with flax, and 
distributed work to her women as she was accustomed 
to do; but it seemed to her that the slaves looked at 
her meaningly, that they had not the same fearful re~ 
spect for her as formerly ; her voice did not sound with 
the same assurance, her gait had something humble and 
furtive about it. Inwardly she felt herself fallen. 

No doubt her scruples were exaggerated and her 
virtue had been in no wise diminished by the mad act 
of Candaules; but ideas inbred from childhood possess 
irresistible power, and the modesty of the body is car- 
ried by Oriental nations to an excess almost incompre- 
hensible to the peoples of the West. When a man 
desired to speak to Nyssia in Bactriana, in the palace 
of Megabasus, he had to do so with his eyes fixed on 
the ground; and two eunuchs, poniard: in hand, stood 
by his side ready to plunge their weapons in his heart if 


he were bold enough to raise his head and gaze upon the 


356 


(EE Ca 


St/t¢ebe¢ee¢ttettetttttestse 
KING CANDAULES | 


princess, although her face was covered. It can easily 
be imagined, then, what a mortal insult must have been, 
to a woman thus brought up, the deed of Candaules, 
which, no doubt, would have been looked upon by any 
other as merely an improper liberty. So the idea of 
vengeance had immediately arisen in Nyssia’s mind, 
and had obtained enough power over her to stifle, 
before it escaped her, the cry of offended modesty 
when, on turning her head, she had seen the burning 
glance of Gyges flaming in the darkness. She had 
displayed the courage of the warrior in ambush who, 
struck by a chance arrow, dares not utter a groan 
for fear of betraying himself behind his shelter of foli- 
age or reeds, but silently lets his blood streak his flesh 
with long, red streams. If she had not repressed that 
first exclamation, Candaules, forewarned and alarmed, 
would have been on his guard and would have made 
more difficult, if not impossible, the carrying out of her 
purpose. 

She had yet no well-defined plan. She was, how- 
ever, resolved to make him pay dearly for the insult to 
her honour. She had at first thought of slaying Can- 
daules herself during his sleep with the sword sus- 


pended by the bed, but she revolted at the thought of 
Rey 


if 
a 
= 
ite 
i 
- 
- 
: 
a 


tebeebetebhtttttetee 
KING CANDAULES 


imbruing her lovely hands in blood. She feared lest 
she might not strike a deadly blow, and angry though 
she was, she hesitated at a deed so extreme and so little 
in accordance with her womanliness. 

Suddenly she appeared to have come to a decision. 
She sent for Statira, one of the maids she had brought 
from Bactra, and in whom she placed great trust. 
She spoke to her for a few moments in a low voice 
and close to her ear, although there was no one in the 
room, as if she were afraid of being overheard by the 
walls. Statira bowed deeply and at once went out. 

Like all people threatened by a great peril, Can- 
daules felt perfectly secure. He was certain that 
Gyges had got out without being noticed, and he 

thought only of the delight of discussing with him the 
unrivalled charms of his wife. 

So he sent for him and took him into the Court of 
Hercules. 

“Well, Gyges,” said he, with a smiling look, “I 
did not deceive you when [ told you that you would 
not regret having spent a few hours behind that blessed 
door. Was I right? Do you know of any woman as 
beautiful as the Queen? If you do know any one 


more beautiful than she, tell me so frankly, and bear 


358 


bhbbe bbe hb ettethkteetbetetes 
KING CANDAULES 


to her from me this string of pearls, the emblem of 
power.” 

“© My lord,’ answered Gyges, in a voice trembling 
with emotion, “no human creature is worthy of being 
compared with Nyssia. It is not the queenly string of 
pearls which ought to adorn her brow, but the starry 
crown of the immortals.” 

“©T was sure that your coldness would melt in the 
blaze of that sun. Now you understand my passion, 
my delirium, my insensate desires. Am I not right, 
Gyges, when I say that a man’s heart is not great 
enough to contain such love? It must overflow and 
spread out.” 

‘A deep blush covered the face of Gyges, who now 
understood too well the admiration of Candaules. 

The king perceived it and said, half smilingly, half 
severely, “ My poor friend, do not be mad enough to 
fall in love with Nyssia. You would lose your pains; 
it was a statue I showed you, not a woman. [ allowed 
you to read a few of the stanzas of a beautiful poem, 
of which I alone possess the manuscript. I wanted to 
have your opinion of it, — that is all.” 

“You need not, sire, recall my nothingness to me. 


Sometimes the humblest of slaves is visited in his 


359 


HEELEALLAL APA SEPAAALALA LLL LL 
KING CANDAULES 


dreams by a radiant and graceful apparition. That 
ideal form, that pearly skin, that ambrosial hair I 
dreamed of with my eyes open. You are the god who 
sent me the dream.” 

“Now,” went on the king, “I need not tell you to 
be absolutely silent. If you do not seal your lips, you 
run the risk of learning to your cost that Nyssia is not 
as kind as she is beautiful.” 

The king waved an adieu to his confidant and with- 
drew to inspect an antique bed carved by Ikmalius, a 
famous workman, which he was asked to purchase. 

Candaules had scarcely gone, when a woman, 
wrapped up in a long mantle so as to show only 
one of her eyes, after the manner of the barbarians, 
emerged from the shadow of the pillars behind which 
she had remained hidden during the conversation of 
the king and his favourite, walked straight to Gyges, 
touched him with a finger on his shoulder, and signed 


to him to follow her. 


V 


STATIRA, followed by Gyges, came to a small door, 
of which she raised the latch by pulling a silver ring 


attached to a leather strap, and ascended a steep stair- 


360 


thbbbbbbbbetebbtbbb tte 
KING CANDAULES 


case cut in the thickness of the wall. At the top of 
the stair was a second door, which she opened by 
means of an ivory and copper key. As soon as 
Gyges entered, she disappeared without explaining to 
him what he was expected to do. 2 

Gyges felt curiosity, mingled with uneasiness. He 
did not quite understand the meaning of this mysteri- 
ous message. He had fancied he recognised in the 
silent Iris one of Nyssia’s women, and the way they 
had taken led to the women’s apartments. He asked 
himself in terror if he had been perceived in his hiding- 
place, or whether Candaules had betrayed him. Either 
supposition was probable. 

At the thought that Nyssia knew all, he turned hot 
and cold alternately. He tried to escape, but the door 
had been locked by Statira and his retreat was cut off. 
He therefore advanced into the room darkened by thick 
purple hangings, and found himself face to face with 
Nyssia. She looked like a statue coming towards him, 
so pale was she. ‘The blood had left her face, a faint 
rosy tint showed on her lips alone; on her soft tem- 
ples a few imperceptible veins formed a network of 
azure; tears had darkened her eyes and traced shining 


marks upon the bloom of her cheeks; the chrysoprase 


361 


a EE Se re 


LEELLELLALLLALALALL ALL ALALASA 
KING CANDAULES 


colour of the eyes had lost its intensity. She was even 
more beautiful and more touching thus; grief had 
given a soul to her marmorean beauty. 

Her dress, in disorder, scarcely fastened on the 
shoulder, allewed her bare arms, her bosom, and the 
upper part of her breasts to show in their dead white-~ 
ness. Like a warrior defeated in a combat, her mod- 
esty had surrendered. Of what use now the draperies 
which concealed her form, or the tunics with carefully 
closed folds? Did not Gyges know her? Why 
should she defend what was lost beforehand ? 

She walked straight to Gyges, and fixing upon 
him an imperial glance full of fire and command, she 
said to him, in a short, sharp voice: — 

“Do not lie, do not seek vain subterfuges. Have 
at least the dignity and the courage of your crime. I 
know all, I saw you ;— not a word of excuse, I shall 
not listen to it! Candaules himself concealed you 
behind the door; was it not thus it happened? And 
no doubt you think that that is the end of it. Unfor- 
tunately, I am not a Greek woman who yields easily to 
the whims of artists and voluptuaries. Nyssia shall 
serve as a plaything to no one. There now exist two 


men, one of whom has no right to be upon earth. 


362 


BREAKKEALAL LSS Set otettttst 
KING7AGAN DA UWE E'S 


Unless he dies, I cannot live. It shall be you or Can- 
daules. You may choose. Kill him, avenge me, and 
win by that murder both my hand and the throne of 
Lydia, or let swift death prevent you henceforth from 
seeing, by cowardly complaisance, what you have no 
right to behold. He who ordered is more guilty than 
he who merely obeyed; and besides, if you become 
my husband, no one shall have seen me who has not 
the right to do so. But make up your mind at once, 
for two of the four eyes in which my nudity has been 
reflected must have closed before night.” 

The strange alternative proposed with terrible cool- 
ness, with inflexible resolve, so greatly surprised Gyges, 
who had expected reproaches, threats, a violent scene, 
that he remained for a few moments pale and mute, as 
ghastly as a shade on the banks of the black river 
of Hell. 

“¢[ dip my hands in my master’s blood! Is it you, 
O Queen, who ask me to commit so great a crime? 
I understand fully your indignation, I think it is justi- 
fied, and it was not my fault that the sacrilege took 
place. But—you know it — kings are powerful, they 
belong to a divine race. Our fates rest in their august 


hands, and weak mortals may not hesitate to obey 


363 


BEELEALLALLALALELALALA LSS 
KI N.G #G@Aen D/A CPEs 


their orders. Their will overcomes our refusals as 
torrents carry away dykes. By your feet I embrace, 
by your dress I touch as a suppliant, be clement! for- 
give an insult which is known to none, and which will 
remain forever buried in darkness and silence. Can- 
daules cherishes, admires you, and his fault springs only 
from excess of love.” 

“Sooner could your speech move a granite sphinx 
in the barren sands of Egypt than me; winged words 
might issue from your mouth uninterruptedly for a 
whole olympiad without changing my resolution. A 
heart of brass dwells within my marble breast. Slay 
or die! When the sunbeam which is streaming 
through these curtains has reached the foot of this 
table, let your mind be made up. I wait.” And 
Nyssia crossed her hands upon her bosom in an atti- 
tude full of sombre majesty. 

Seen thus standing motionless and pale, with fixed 
eyes, contracted brows, wild-haired, her foot firmly 
pressed upon the pavement, she might have passed for 
Nemesis watching the moment to strike the guilty. 

“No one willingly visits the darksome depths of 
Hades,” replied Gyges. ‘It is sweet to enjoy the 


pure light of day, and the heroes themselves who 


364 


ttetbbeteteeetetettebtttdse 
KING CANDAULES 


inhabit the Fortunate Isles would willingly return to 
their country. Every man instinctively seeks to pre- 
serve himself, and since blood must flow, let it be the 
blood of another rather than mine.” | 

Besides these feelings, confessed by Gyges with 
antique frankness, he experienced others more noble, 
which he did not speak of. He was madly in love 
with Nyssia, therefore it was not the fear of death 
alone which made him accept the bloody task. The 
thought of leaving Candaules the free possessor of 
Nyssia was insupportable to him. And then, the 
vertigo of fatality was upon him. By a series of 
strange and terrible circumstances he was being car- 
ried on to the fulfilment of his dreams; the mighty 
tide bore him on in spite of himself. Nyssia in per- 
son was holding out her hand to help him ascend the 
steps of the royal throne. He forgot that Candaules 
was his master and his benefactor, for no man can 
escape his fate, and Necessity walks with nails in the 
one hand and whip in the other, to stay man or drive 
him on. 

“Tt is well,’ answered Nyssia. ‘Here is the 
weapon,” and she drew from her bosom a Bactrian 


poniard with jade handle adorned with circles of white 


365 


obs obs ob ob oh obs obo obs obs obs of 


KING CANDAULES 


it 


gold.. ‘“¢ This blade is made, not of brass, but of iron 
hard to work, tempered in fire and water; Hephzstus 
himself could not forge a sharper. It will pierce like 
thinnest papyrus a metal cuirass or a buckler covered 
with dragon-skin. The time,” she continued, with 
the same icy coldness, “shall be when he is asleep. 
Let him slumber and never wake again.” 

Her accomplice Gyges listened to her in a stupor, 
for he had not expected such resolution in a woman 
who could not bring herself to draw aside her veil. 

“« The place of ambush shall be the very spot where 
the infamous wretch concealed you to expose me to 
your glance. At the approach of night I shall push 
back the door upon you; I shall undress, lie down, 
and when he is asleep [ shall sign to you. But do not 
hesitate, do not weaken, and let not your hand tremble 
when the time is come. And now, lest you should 
change your mind, I shall secure your person until the 
fatal moment. You might attempt to escape, to inform 
your master. Abandon all such hope.” 

Nyssia whistled in a peculiar way, and immediately, 
raising a Persian hanging enriched with a flower pattern, 
gave passage to four tawny monsters dressed in robes 


rayed with diagonal stripes, with muscular arms like 


366 


ktéeeeecbedcetttettttetetese 
STNG ALIN: D Ar USEABeS 


knotty oaks; big thick lips; golden rings passed in 
their nostrils; teeth sharp as wolves’, and an expres- 
sion of brutish servility hideous to behold. 

The Queen spoke a few words in a tongue un- 
known to Gyges,— Bactrian, no doubt; the four 
slaves sprang upon the young man, seized him, and 
carried him away as a nurse carries away a child in her 
arms. 

Now what was the real motive which induced 
Nyssia to act? Had she noticed Gyges when she met 
him near Bactra, and kept the remembrance of the 
young captain in one of those secret recesses of the 
heart in which the most honest women always have 
something hidden? Was the desire to avenge her 
modesty spurred on by some other unconfessed desire? 
If Gyges had not been the handsomest youth in Asia, 
would she have been as eager to punish Candaules for 
having outraged the sacredness of marriage’ ‘These 
are questions difficult to answer, especially three thou- 
sand years later, and although I have consulted Her- 
odotus, Hephzstion, Plato, Dositheus, Archilochus of 
Paros, Hesychius of Miletus, Ptolemy, Euphorion, and 
all those who have spoken at length or shortly of 
Nyssia, Candaules, and Gyges, I have been unable to 


367 


LEELA ALELLSEAAAAL ALLEL ALAS 
KING: CAN DA UTES? 


reach any certain result. ‘To ascertain after so many 
centuries, under the ruins of so many fallen empires, 
under the ashes of vanished nations, so slight a dis- 
tinction, is difficult. 

What is certain is that Nyssia’s resolve was inflexi- 
ble, the murder seemed to her the fulfilment of a 
sacred duty. Among barbaric nations any man who 
has surprised a woman nude is put to death. The 
Queen believed herself justified ; only, as the insult had 
been secret, she did herself justice as best she could. 
The passive accomplice was to become the executioner 
of the other, and the punishment to spring from the 
crime itself; the hand was to chastise the head. 

The olive-complexioned monsters shut Gyges up in 
an obscure part of the palace, whence it was impossible 
that he should escape and from which his cries could 
not be heard. He spent the rest of the day in cruel 
anxiety, accusing the hours of being lame, and again 
of passing too quickly. “The crime he was about to 
commit, although in a way he was but the instru- 
ment and yielded to irresistible ascendency, presented 
itself to his mind under the darkest colours. Suppose 
the blow should fail through some circumstance which 


no man could foresee; or the people of Sardis were to 


368 


LLLLE ALLELE ELAS EEE bet 
RONG tGeagN DAUIEES 


revolt and to seek to avenge the death of the King ; — 
these were some of the very sensible but quite use- 
less reflections which Gyges made while waiting to be 
brought out of his prison and led to the place whence 
he was to issue only to slay his master. 

At last night spread its starry mantle over the 
heavens, and darkness fell upon the city and the palace. 
A light step was heard, a veiled woman entered the 
room, took Gyges by the hand, and led him through 
obscure corridors and the many windings of the royal 
edifice with as much certainty as if she had been 
preceded by a slave bearing lamps or torches. The 
hand which held that of Gyges was cold, soft, and 
small, but the slender fingers pressed his and hurt him 
as the fingers of a brazen statue made alive by a 
prodigy. Inflexible will was expressed by the ever- 
equal pressure, like that of a pair of pincers, which no 
hesitation of brain or heart caused to relax. Gyges, 
overcome, subjugated, bowed down, yielded to the 
imperious hand that drew him along as if he were 
dragged by the mighty arm of Fate. 

Alas! this was not the way in which he would have 
loved to touch for the first time the beautiful royal 
hand which was holding out a dagger to him and 


24 369 


te¢tebbbtrtbtttttetttttttts 
KUNG) CAN DA Us 


leading him to murder! For it was Nyssia herself 
who had come to seek Gyges to place him in his 
ambush. 

Not a word passed between the sinister couple dur- 
ing the progress from the prison to the nuptial cham- 
ber. ‘The Queen undid the straps, raised the bar of 
the door, and placed Gyges behind the leaf as Can- 
daules had done the night before. The repetition of 
the same acts, with so different an intention, had a 
lugubrious and fatalistic character. Vengeance this 
time stepped upon the very prints of the insult ; chas- 
tisement and crime travelled by the same road. Yes- 
terday it had been the turn of Candaules; to-day it 
was that of Nyssia and Gyges; the accomplice of the 
insult was also the accomplice of the penalty. He 
had served the King to dishonour the Queen; he was 
to serve the Queen by slaying the King, exposed 
equally by the vice of the one and the virtue of the 
other. 

The daughter of Megabasus appeared to feel a sav- 
age joy, a fierce pleasure, in employing only the means 
chosen by the Lydian King, and in turning to the 
account of murder the precautions he had taken for 


the satisfaction of a voluptuous fancy. 


as ee 


LEEALEALLALALLALALALLLELALALARS 


KING CANDAULES 
*¢ You shall see me again to-night take off the gar- 
ments which displease Candaules so much. The sight 


’ 


no doubt wearies you,” said the Queen, with an accent 
of bitter irony, as she stood on the threshold of the 
chamber. ‘¢ You will end by thinking me ugly,” and 
sardonic, fierce laughter twisted for a moment her pale 
lips. Then, resuming her impassible and severe face: 
‘¢ Do not imagine that you can escape this time as you 
did before. You know my glance is piercing. At the 
least movement on your part, I shall awaken Can- 
daules, and you understand it will not be easy to 
explain what you are doing in the King’s apartment 
behind the door with a poniard in your hand. Besides, 
my Bactrian slaves, the copper-coloured mutes who 
shut you up, are guarding the issues of the palace and 
have orders to slay you if you go out. So let no vain 
scruples of faithfulness stay your hand. Remember 
that I shall make you King of Sardis, and that [—I 
shall love you if you avenge me. ‘The blood of Can- 
daules shall be your purple, and his death shall give 
you his place in his bed.” 

The slaves came, according to their custom, to 
renew the coals on the tripods, to fill up the lamps 


with oil, to spread upon the royal bed carpets and 


SAD 


choke cbse aby oe te oe baal fo cdecdocbocle ce oo ofa leche eee oe 
KING) GAN DAD EES 


skins of animals; and Nyssia hastened to enter the 
room as soon as she heard their steps sounding in the 
distance. 

Soon after, Candaules arrived, quite joyous. He had 
purchased the bed carved by Ikmalius, and intended to 
substitute it for the Oriental couch, which, he said, he 
had never greatly cared for. He seemed satished to 
find Nyssia already in the chamber. 

“So your embroidery frame, your spindles and 
needles have not had the same charms for you to-day 
as usually? Ido not wonder at it. It is monotonous 
work to pass a thread continually between other threads, 
and I am surprised at the pleasure which you seem to 
take in it. The truth is, I was afraid that some day, 
seeing you so clever, Pallas Athena would angrily break 
her shuttle on your head, as she did to poor Arachne.” 

“My lord, I felt somewhat weary to-night, and I 
came down from the upper rooms earlier than usual. 
Will you not, before sleeping, drink a cup of the black 
Samian wine mingled with honey of Hymettus?”’ 
And as she spoke, she poured from a golden urn into a 
cup of the same metal the dark-coloured drink, in 
which she had mingled the sleep-compelling juices of 
the nepenthe. 


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Candaules took the cup by the two handles, and 
drank the wine to the last drop; but the young 
Heraclid had a strong head, and with his elbow sunk 
on the pillows of the couch, he watched Nyssia unrobe 
without the dust of sleep yet filling his eyes. 

Just as she had done the night before, Nyssia undid 
her hair and let its splendid golden waves fall upon her 
shoulders; and Gyges, from his hiding-place, thought 
he saw them gleam with fiery tints, lit up by the 
reflections of flame and of blood, and the curls stretch- 
ing out with viper-like undulations like the hair of 
Medusa. 

Her simple and graceful action derived from the 
terrible deed which was about to happen a frightful and 
fatal character which made the concealed assassin 
tremble with terror. 

Nyssia next took off her bracelets, but her hands, 
stiffened by nervous contractions, ill served her impa- 
tience. She broke the thread of a bracelet of amber 
beads incrusted with gold, which rolled noisily on the 
floor, and made Candaules half open his eyelids, but he 
again closed them. Each of the grains struck on 
Gyges’ heart like a drop of molten lead on water. 


Having unloosed her cothurns, the Queen cast her 


343 


LEELEALELALAALALALAL LALLA 
KING CANDAULES 


outer tunic upon the back of the ivory arm-chair. 
The drapery, thus laid, seemed to Gyges like the 
sinister cloth in which the dead are wrapped to bear 
them to the funeral pile. Everything in the room, 
which the night before he had thought so bright and 
splendid, seemed to him livid, darksome, and threaten- 
ing. ‘The basalt statues moved their eyes and sneered 
hideously ; the lamp crackled and scattered its light in 
red, bloody beams like the hair of a comet; in the 
dark corners showed portentous, monstrous forms of 
larve and of lemurs. ‘The cloaks, suspended from the 
pins, seemed to have a factitious life, to assume a 
human appearance, and when Nyssia, throwing off her 
last garment, advanced towards the bed white and nude, 
he thought Death had broken the diamond bonds with 
which Hercules had of yore chained it to the gates of 
Hell when he delivered Alcestis, and was coming in 
person to seize upon Candaules. 

The King, overcome by the bitter juices of the 
nepenthe, had fallen asleep. Nyssia signed to Gyges 
to leave his retreat, and placing her finger upon Can- 
daules’ breast, she cast on her accomplice a glance so 
moist, so lustrous, so laden with languor, so full of 


intoxicating promise, that Gyges, maddened, fascinated, 


374 


LELLALALLALLALALLLALLLALL LSA 


ere 


WEN GY GAN DAUTICES 


sprang from his hiding-place like a tiger from the rock 
on which it has lain, traversed the room at one leap, 
and plunged to the hilt the Bactrian dagger into the 
heart of the descendant of Hercules. 

Nyssia’s modesty was avenged, and Gyges’ dream 
had come true. 

Thus ended the dynasty of the Heraclids, after hav- 
ing lasted five hundred and five years, and thus began 
that of the Mermnades in the person of Gyges, son of 
Dascylus. The Sardians, indignant at the death of 
Candaules, were ready to revolt, but the Delphic 
Oracle, having declared in favour of Gyges, who had 
sent it a great number of silver vases and six golden 
craters weighing thirty talents, the new king main- 
tained himself on the throne of Lydia, which he 
occupied for many years, living happily and showing 
his wife to no one, knowing too well what it cost to 


do so. 


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